


The Story of an Angel and a Demon...

by onlydaisy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale doesn't know Crowley's a demon, Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Best Friends, But they love each other anyway, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Secret Crush, and Crowley doesn't know Aziraphale's an angel, he owns a plant shop, they're both dumbasses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-08-13 23:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20182738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlydaisy/pseuds/onlydaisy
Summary: ...who fell in love.In the year 4004BC, in the garden, Aziraphale and Crowley met. Then they didn’t see each other for 6000 years. This is in part due to the fact that they’re both on a big planet, and running into someone is easy to avoid. It’s mostly due to the fact that they were both terrified of one another, or, more importantly, how they immediately felt about one another.Over the course of 6000 years, it’s easy to forget what someone looks like. So, when they open shops next to one another, they think they’re just any other human.





	1. In the Beginning

In the beginning, there was a demon and an angel. In fact, there was a lot more than one but in terms of Earth, there tended to be just the two managing their side of things. They met once, on their first Earth-bound assignment, and then never again. For 6000 years. You see, they had both managed to scare one another off in that first meeting.

Aziraphale, the angel, had known of demons his entire existence. He doesn’t remember anything before the Fall. So, as far as he remembers, demons have been the things nightmares were made of. Aziraphale had been told countless stories of the trickery and evil of demons, and he was terrified when he was warned he might encounter one in the Garden.

Crowley, the demon, had similar opinions of angels. He doesn’t remember before the Fall, either. He remembers _falling_, but nothing prior to that. So, as far as he can remember, angels have been annoying do-gooders that weren’t worth anyone’s time. As far as all the other demons were concerned, angels were cold and uptight, and most importantly, boring. Of course, Crowley did consider most of his fellow demons to be pretty boring, but at least some of them knew how to have _fun_. He was sure angels didn’t.

This changed, when the two of them met. On the wall of the Garden, Crowley approached Aziraphale, in the hopes to cause further trouble and maybe wind up an angel. It didn’t happen that way. Crowley and Aziraphale were both completely taken by surprise by one another; they were not at all how they expected an angel or a demon to be. This immediately scared both of them. Having a more interesting conversation with the supposed ‘enemy’ than you’d ever had with anyone of your own kind was never a good sign. It made both of them doubt universal truths they’d always known, as well as their own nature.

The thing is, this wasn't their first meeting, not really. They'd met once before. Before the Fall. However, the large majority of demons and angels had little to no memory of what actually went on before the fall, save for a few of particularly high ranking. This was to save any issues getting in the way of the whole Heaven and Hell being enemies business. Crowley, which hadn't been his name at the time, and Aziraphale had actually been rather close. They don't remember that anymore, though. This also played a part in how they felt when the met for the second time.

So, once they’d bid each other farewell, they avoided each other to the best of their ability, to save any issues with their superiors. Or with themselves.

It worked fairly well, really. They never came into contact, as far as they knew. There were a few close-calls that they were sometimes aware of, sometimes not. They were successful for a whole 6000 years, and by then they’d practically forgotten one another even existed. They definitely forgot what each other looked like.

That’s why, when Crowley decided to do something more with his time than just cause trouble (as much as he enjoyed causing trouble, these days he mostly sat around his empty flat getting bored - you can only prank call your superiors so many times), and opened up a small plant shop in Soho, he didn’t recognise the owner of the shop next door. And Aziraphale, having happily settled into his bookshop for the last few decades, didn’t recognise the man that moved into the empty shop next door.


	2. Third Meeting

Crowley was already regretting his decision. Not only to move, but opening the shop entirely. He’d always loved gardening (if raising particularly anxious house plants constituted gardening), mostly because in a world of do-as-your-told-or-get-your-entire-being-reduced-to-nothing demonic leadership, and the Great Plan, completely unquestionable and unchangeable, Crowley likes to feel like he at least has a bit of control. Especially considering it was his complete lack of control that ended up with him Fallen without a choice in the matter. This is where his houseplants come in. As much as he enjoys his shenanigans and causing havoc around the world, he knows it’s all to serve Hell and some kind of Greater Cause, which Crowley is still somewhat unsure about. His houseplants, however, are completely up to him. He can do whatever he wants with them, none of it good or bad, right or wrong, nothing that could possibly get him in trouble. That’s where the idea of the plant shop came in. He’s still not 100% sure that he wants to sell any of his plants, but this gives him the space and the excuse to get even more than he already has.

He was regretting his decision, now, because moving meant transporting his plants. This was obvious, but he hadn’t thought it through. After so many years looking after them with great care, they were huge now. Which Crowley loved. _Except_ when it came to transporting them. He could fit two in the Bentley at once, and he couldn’t drive fast unless he wanted soil all over the car he’d kept _pristine_ for decades.

You see, Crowley sometimes forgets he’s a demon. Of course he doesn’t actually _forget_, but after so many years on Earth living amongst the humans, it’s very easy to get weighed down with human issues and forget that you’re a ‘higher being’. So, when he was oh-so-carefully putting two of his beloved plants on the backseat, he didn’t think about the fact that he could miracle-away any spilt dirt. Until, he knocked one of them a bit and immediately whisked away the dirt with a simple hand gesture. Then he remembered. He’s a demon.Of course he is. He curses himself for caring too much, and then he’s happily speeding through London, accompanied by Freddie Mercury’s voice coming from his Bach CD.

***

Aziraphale was making himself a cup of tea to calm himself down after having a particularly-insistent customer that was _quite_ determined to purchase one of his books. Which, obviously, Aziraphale could not have. He definitely did _not_ use a miracle to get out of the situation and he could only hope that his superiors wouldn’t start complaining about his ‘frivolous miracles’ again.

Cup of tea in hand, Aziraphale was just about to close up the shop for the day (he couldn’t handle another close call like that), when he sees a very nice car that had been going remarkable fast stop in front of the shop. He’s _sure _there were double yellow lines on this corner. He sees it every day, so he’s _certain_ of it. But, when he peers a little closer, they're nowhere to be seen. _Hmm_, Aziraphale thinks, _strange_. He doesn't question it further.

He watches the man driving climb out of the car, pick up a large houseplant in either arm, and disappear somewhere along the street. Aziraphale hears the door next to the shop opening, and footsteps moving around behind the wall. His ears perk up, and he listens carefully. That door, and the space he can hear the footsteps moving around in, used to belong to a stuffy old woman that sold a variety of hand-knitted items. She was quite a bookworm, and a very stubborn woman. If Aziraphale could ever say he had an enemy (beyond the whole Heaven vs. Hell, angels vs. demons thing), it would be her. She’s one of the few people that ever succeeded in buying a book from him. Yesterday, though, she’d mysteriously moved out. He didn’t see her moving out, or hear anything, the shop was just empty when Aziraphale opened up for the day. He can’t say he wasn’t relieved. And now, he supposes, this man is moving in. _Gosh,_ Aziraphale thinks, _I hope he doesn’t like books._

Besides that concern, Aziraphale gets excited about having a possible neighbour. A _neighbour_. He could make them tea. They could borrow sugar from one another, like neighbours do. Aziraphale’s mind runs away with itself, and he tries to get a closer look at the man as he goes back to his car, but he’s just a quick blur of black and red as he gets in and speeds off. Maybe not a new neighbour, then.

***

It takes Crowley a few trips, in the end, but he eventually gets all his plants and the few belongings he has to the shop. He’d told himself he’d get furniture and more plants tomorrow, but he now realises his mistake when he has nowhere to sit but the floor, and nothing to do but read a couple of old books that he wasn’t sure why he still had.

Just when he starts to consider a last-minute trip to Ikea (Crowley hates it, but he thinks he should at least support something he had a part in creating), there’s a knock on his door. Immediately, Crowley misses being in his flat. No one would knock on his door there. He supposes you have to get used to this if you’re running a shop.

He sighs, thinking he should probably answer in case it’s something important, picks himself up off the floor and opens the door, leaning all his weight against the frame.

***

Aziraphale waits patiently outside his neighbours door. He really hopes this man is a new neighbour. He could use the company, even if it is only for another few decades. He had kept watching as the man had unloaded plant after plant. He’d come to the conclusion that he was either a gardener or a horticulturalist, perhaps. Even after watching for longer than was appropriate, he hadn’t gotten a good look at the man, so he was particularly curious.

After a few moments, the door swings open to reveal a tall, slender man leaning against the frame. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, the only drop of colour on him being his wild, flaming red hair. Aziraphale is taken aback, a bit. He hadn’t expected the man to be so _attractive. _That being said, he hadn’t expected to feel attraction, full stop. Ever. But this man was breathtaking, and Aziraphale had the uncomfortable urge to take the man’s sunglasses off so he could see what was behind them.

***

Crowley doesn’t know what he expected. He expected an annoyance, really. He didn’t expect a small, cherub-like man looking up at him with a beaming smile. Crowley’s heart _definitely_ didn’t flutter, not at all. Nothing of the sort.

“Hello, I’m your neighbour,” Aziraphale says, “I own the bookshop next door. I just thought I’d say hello. So, hello!”

“Hi,” Crowley offers in return, “neighbour?”

“Uh, yes, you have just moved in, haven’t you?” Aziraphale peers round to see the empty store behind Crowley, and his confusion is clear when he sees nothing but house plants.

“I suppose I have,” Crowley says.

“I’m Aziraphale.”

“That’s…biblical,” Crowley comments. He tended to have a distaste towards biblical names, for obvious reasons. He wasn’t too opposed to this one, though. He couldn’t decide if that was just the person attached to it, though.

“Oh yes, very religious parents,” Aziraphale explains, “and you are…?”

“Crowley,” Crowley says, “Anthony Crowley,” he adds, upon seeing Aziraphale’s frown, “but call me Crowley.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats. Crowley pretends he doesn’t enjoy the way he says his name. “Would you like a cup of tea? Or,” he checks his watch, “something stronger?”

Crowley debates this for a moment in his head. On one hand, human’s lives are fleeting and are like the blink of an eye for Crowley, and thus not really worth getting attached to. On the other hand, he likes Aziraphale already. Despite his being very much not demonic. He was closer to angelic, really. “You’ve tempted me,” Crowley says. If asked, he’d deny deliberately making that word choice, but he couldn’t help teasing in front of someone so cherub-like and just all around _angelic_. “I didn’t think through my decision to leave furniture-buying until tomorrow, so sitting down would be good.

“Oh, good heavens, you must come and sit,” Aziraphale says, immediately getting flustered at the thought of someone being uncomfortable when he could relieve them from being so. He steps to the side, gesturing with one hand, “after you.”

***

Crowley hasn’t been inside many bookshops, in his 6000 years on Earth, but this is probably the most bookshop-y bookshop he’s ever seen. It’s covered practically floor-to-ceiling in books, with a few odd seats available. It, somehow, looks simultaneously very lived in and very not lived in. It’s as though it’s been lived in by someone who likes to read and collects books but does absolutely nothing else with their time. Except maybe drink wine. _Good_ wine, judging by what Crowley can see of the bottle Aziraphale’s pouring out into two glasses. He likes that he fills them up just a little extra than most would.

Aziraphale finishes pouring the wine, and joins Crowley in the armchairs surrounded by books. He passes Crowley one of the glasses.

“Oh, you’re an angel,” Crowley says, more thankful for a glass of wine than he’d been in a while. A lot had been getting on his nerves today, namely his houseplants and the city of London. And now here he was spending time with a human, so who knew what was happening.

Aziraphale gets _very_ flustered by the comment. His face goes bright red and he lets out a short, strange laugh. _If only he knew how right he is_, he thinks, trying to play it as cool as he possibly can given the circumstances. It would be flustering enough if a man like Crowley had called him an angel regardless, let alone when he actually _is_ one, and trying to be subtle about it.

Crowley can’t deny that he likes Aziraphale’s reaction to that. He’s definitely going to try that again.

Aziraphale takes a moment to compose himself, then continues the niceties. “So you’re opening up a shop, I take it?”

Crowley nods. “Plant shop,” he explains, “big plant fan, me.”

“Mm, I could tell,” Aziraphale says, “I was making bets with myself when you’d be finished hauling all your plants back and forth.”

“Were you, angel?” Crowley gets a mischievous smile across his face. He couldn’t say for certain exactly what it was that pleased him so deeply about the fact that Aziraphale had been watching him that whole time.

Aziraphale holds Crowley’s eyes (well, his sunglasses) for a bit then looks away, embarrassed. “So do you do anything besides your soon-to-be plant shop, Crowley?”

Crowley makes some kind of noise that Aziraphale recognises him as definitely having some kind of job, presumably an unpleasant one.

“Sort of, kind of, you could say that,” Crowley says. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just _lie. _He is a demon, and it would make life simpler. Instead, he sees this as an opportunity to finally have someone to talk to about his job which is, well, Hell.

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Do elaborate.”

“I work for this company,” Crowley starts, trying to piece together just the right amount of truth and lie in his head, “run lots of errands for them. It was fun, at first, but the longer it goes on the longer I realise these aren’t the kind of people I want to be working for. But they’re great at contracts, you see. Air tight.”

“Ah, lawyers?”

Crowley nods. _Lawyers_, perfect. “Exactly. Practically own my soul.”

“I see,” Aziraphale says, “the wine’s needed, then.”

“Very much so,” Crowley says, raising his glass. Aziraphale mimics the movement, and they both continue drinking. “You’re just a bookshop…owner, then, angel?”

Aziraphale nods, cheeks still going red at the word, “Just a bookshop owner.” He can hardly add in the fact that he’ll occasionally travel somewhere to do a little miracle from time to time. “I do a bit of, um, work with my church. Every now and then. Some travelling.”

“Like…mission work, right?” Crowley questions, “Sorry, not particularly religious. My…_parents_ were very anti-religion.”

“Yes, mission work, exactly,” Aziraphale says. He’s not surprised by Crowley’s lack of religion. As an angel, you can get a certain feeling from someone that’s particularly religious. Crowley gave him almost the opposite feeling, but it didn’t put him off, not even slightly.

“You had your bookshop long?”

“Just for the last...” Aziraphale _was_ going to finish with 'few hundred years' but realised, if he was human, he would’ve been a little too not-born to own a bookshop at the time, “since my father retired,” he makes up in the knick of time, “it's been in the family for generations. I practically grew up in it, always loved it. So I took over when he was done.”

Crowley nods, deciding he could listen to Aziraphale talk for days on end. Or hours, at least. Which he did. This was decidedly the longest time either he or Aziraphale had ever spent in the company of a human. At least, what they thought to be a human. They sat drinking bottle after bottle, until long after the sky had turned black, and they had learned all there is to know about one another. At least, the watered-down, human versions of one another.

Crowley practically jumps out of his skin when his phone rings and interrupts Aziraphale's long rambling about some restaurant in Paris.

“I thought the mobile networks were down, today,” Aziraphale comments, significantly lower in his chair than he had been with the first glass. He still had infinitely better posture than Crowley had ever had.

“They were,” Crowley says. _I should know,_ he thinks, _I did it myself_. That’s what makes him nervous about the phone call. By his calculations, the networks shouldn’t be back up until at least 3am. That means whoever and wherever he’s getting the call from, it’s not Earth.

Crowley picks up the phone.

“Yep.”

“Crowley,” a gravelly voice answers.

Crowley inaudibly groans. Aziraphale smiles at the performance. “Hastur. What is it?”

“Graveyard,” Hastur says, “Tad…field.” Crowley can hear someone muttering to Hastur, but can’t quite make out what they’re saying.

“Hmm? What about it?”

“Meet me there.”

“…Right.” Hastur, bless him, hadn’t quite gotten the hang of modern technology. Or social conventions. “When?”

“Now.”

“Well, it’s a bit of a drive. It might take me a couple hours.” _And I don’t want to say goodbye to Aziraphale, just yet._

“I’m waiting.” Then he hangs up, as elegant as Hastur ever is.

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows when Crowley drops his phone back into his lap. “The lawyers?”

“The lawyers.”

“It’s awfully late.” Aziraphale glances out the window, confirming that they are, in fact, sat in total darkness.

“They do this,” Crowley says. He then lets out an audible groan, this time, throwing his head back against the chair. “The lot of them, they’re a pain in the ass. Any idea where Tadfield is?”

“Tadfield…” Aziraphale thinks. Crowley doesn’t notice half of the empty bottles of wine slowly re-filling as he thinks. “Oxfordshire, I think.”

“Great. I best be off, then.”

“Now? You’re driving to Oxford, now?”

Crowley nods.

“You’ve had far too much to drink, you can’t drive in this state.”

Crowley shrugs, “I’ll be fine.” Aziraphale doesn’t notice the bottles filling up the rest of the way. He does take note of it later on, after Crowley had left. Something deep inside him told him what this meant, but Aziraphale was oblivious to it.

“Be careful, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, genuine concern written across his face. That stops Crowley, halfway through standing up. He can honestly say this is the first time in his life he’s seen someone care about him, and he’s only known Aziraphale a few hours. “Do let me know when you get there safely, or else I’ll worry.”

“Uh,” Crowley says, insightfully. It takes him a moment to get his brain working again. “Yeah, sure, of course. What’s your phone number?”

Aziraphale gives it to him, the old-fashioned way, unsurprisingly, in neat, little print numbers on a small slip of paper. “Do you mind dropping me off somewhere? I thought I’d grab some food.”

“At this time?” Crowley questions, but waits for Aziraphale to get his jacket on and holds the door open for him.

“Hunger never sleeps.”

“No,” Crowley says, with a small smile, “I suppose it doesn’t.”


	3. Things are Afoot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the best thing about good omens being set in england is that anything and everything driving-related is such relatable content

“Good heavens, please slow down!” Aziraphale begs, clinging onto the door and the dashboard. Living in central London since before the invention of the car, Aziraphale rarely got in a car. He _never_ drove one. He would hardly be able to handle a regular person's driving, let alone _Crowley's_ driving.

“It’s alright, I know what I’m doing,” Crowley insists.

Aziraphale had been inside Crowley’s car for approximately five minutes, and he already wanted to get out. He didn’t think it was even _possible_ to drive this fast in central London. When he looks out at the road in front of them (something he was already learning to avoid doing, for his own peace of mind), it doesn’t quite add up, how the car is moving from place to place and weaving between cars. As someone who doesn’t drive, though, he can’t really figure out what it is. He does conclude two things, though: Crowley must be a _terrifically_ good driver, and, he must really hate this job, judging by the look of stress slowly making a home on his face. Aziraphale hopes that’s not why he’s driving so recklessly.

“This it, the sushi place?” Crowley asks, before Aziraphale could even register that they’d stopped.

“Yes, yes, this is it,” Aziraphale says. He gets out of the car, needing solid ground under his feet and not the swaying and swerving motion of Crowley’s Bentley. “Are you sure you’re in a fit state to drive?”

“I always drive like this, angel.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says, still not used to the nickname. He hopes Crowley can’t see the red on his cheeks through his sunglasses. “Let me know when you get there safely.”

“Happily,” Crowley says, giving one last smile and a gentle wave, before he’s gone with not even a trail of smoke left in his wake.

Aziraphale is left, stood on the pavement, alone, feeling rather taken-aback. He’s not even sure the last few hours have been real. He thinks about it as he switches to auto-pilot, going inside and greeting the chefs, ordering, getting a drink. Crowley doesn’t feel like he’s actually a real person. He’s too good to be true, really. He can make Aziraphale laugh better than anyone has, and despite the obvious tough exterior, he’s the kindest anyone’s ever been to Aziraphale. He can’t believe they just talked for hours on end, without getting bored. Aziraphale _definitely_ couldn't do that with an angel. With each passing day, he’s sure humans are infinitely better than angels. The angels he’s known, anyway. And the humans he's known.

Just as Aziraphale’s staring lovingly at the sushi just placed in front of him, and considering the worst of the angels he’s met, he spots one of them in the mirror down the other end of the restaurant. _Okay_, Aziraphale tells himself, _you’re imagining things_. But, when he turns, Gabriel is standing there in the flesh. Aziraphale has to restrain himself so he doesn’t swear, because he was _very _much thinking about his numerous negative experiences with Gabriel. He hopes he hadn’t heard.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Gabriel, what an unexpected pleasure. It’s been…”

“Quite a while, yes.” _Not long enough_, Aziraphale can’t help but think. Gabriel then goes on to entirely prove his point the moment he starts criticising and insulting Aziraphale’s sushi. Aziraphale all but tunes out, not needing any more angelic lectures. He can’t help but wishing he was still talking to Crowley, instead. He catches himself, though. He definitely should _not_ be thinking that way about a human.

“Pity they won’t be around much longer,” Gabriel says, and all thoughts of Crowley are lost again.

“They won’t?”

“We have reliable information that things…are afoot.”

“They are?” Aziraphale keeps a calm demeanour to hide the panic and alarm bells currently going off in his head. ‘Things’, in Gabriel terms, is the apocalypse. End of humanity. End of Earth. End of books, and sushi, and all the things Aziraphale holds dear. End of Crowley, a little voice tells him, which he promptly tells to shut _up_ because he’s known the man a day and he shouldn’t be feeling this way about him.

“My informant suggests that the demon…Crawly, may be involved?”

Aziraphale thinks it through. The name doesn’t sound familiar. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Well, find him. You need to keep him under observation. Without, of course, letting him know that’s what you’re doing.”

“I do know, yes,” Aziraphale says, “I’ve been doing this on Earth since the beginning.”

“So has Crawly,” Gabriel says. It triggers a memory deep in Aziraphale, of a nice chat on the wall of a nice garden, long ago. He can hardly remember a thing about that demon, any more. He must’ve been Crawly. “It’s a miracle you haven’t ran into each other yet.”

Aziraphale makes some kind of face. He tries to control it, but Aziraphale isn’t always the best at stopping his face from showing exactly what he thinks. And what he thinks, at that particular moment in time, is that it _isn’t_ a miracle they haven’t ran into each other, because Aziraphale remembers expressly _avoiding_ that demon, solely for the fact that the one conversation he had with him was infinitely more enjoyable than the one he was currently stuck in.

Fortunately for him, Gabriel isn’t the best at reading human faces. Aziraphale, as someone who’s lived on Earth for 6000 years, makes very human faces. This, on top of the fact that Gabriel only cares about doing what’s Right, and not really paying attention to anyone along the way, means that he only interprets facial expressions to mean exactly what he wants them to mean.

“Yes, I know. Miracles are what we do.” Then, thankfully, he leaves.

Aziraphale lets out a breath, looking back at his sushi. The conversation would’ve ruined his appetite, if he had the kind of appetite that could be ruined.

So. The apocalypse is happening. Aziraphale had always known it would happen at some point, but he’d never been sure when. He wishes desperately that it wasn’t now.

***

Approximately 50 miles away, Crowley speeds through small, country lanes. He doesn’t particularly want to see Hastur. He’d rather go back and see Aziraphale some more. He'd rather go and see _anyone_ some more. Hastur always seemed to be who was sent whenever someone needed to come to Earth, for Crowley or for any other reason. He’d had enough of it. Hastur was about as boring as a demon could get. Didn’t appreciate any of the low-grade evil that Crowley’s awfully proud of.

He spots the graveyard just by chance, when he’s rolling his eyes at another driver swearing at him for not having his lights on. He flicks his lights on just so the other driver sees him flipping him off as he skids round to make the turn at the last second. He laughs at the honking he leaves in his wake. Crowley’s decided, over the years, that if a human can get _that_ worked up by another person’s driving, then they’re getting what’s coming to them.

When he pulls up, he sees another figure next to his demonic best friend. Hastur _and_ Ligur, of course. The dynamic duo.

They greet him with a chorus of ‘hail satan’s.

“Uh, hi guys,” Crowley offers in return, “sorry I’m late but you know how it is on the A40 at Denham. I tried to cut up towards Chorleywood-” Crowley _was_ planning to do a little low-grade evil and torture Hastur and Ligur with a lengthy explanation of his route to avoid traffic. Of course, Hastur and Ligur _are_ demons, i.e. not the intended targets for Crowley’s low-grade evil. However, Crowley doesn’t like them and he thinks that’s enough of an excuse, really. He doesn’t get to follow through with his plan, though, because Hastur just starts going on about the ‘deeds of the day’ instead. Which is, as Crowley would put it, bullshit. Neither Hastur nor Ligur respect the effort he put into taking down _all_ of London’s mobile network. That’s not an easy feat, and they should respect that.

“So…what’s up?” Crowley diverts, when he decides his energy isn’t worth wasting trying to convince them what he did was better.

“This is,” Hastur says, and Ligur holds up a basket. A basket. Containing the anti-christ.

“No.”

“Yes,” Ligur insists.

“Already?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s up to me to….?”

“Yes.”

Crowley tries to convince them otherwise. He really does. He does just about as much as he could without giving away the fact that he’d much rather the apocalypse _didn’t_ happen, actually. They’re insistent. Crowley tries to play it cool. If he can _just_ last until he’s in the car.

“Okay,” Crowley says, taking the basket, “I’ll, um, be off then.”

Crowley walks, calmly, to his car. Playing it cool. He puts the baby in the back (he briefly considers the safety of having a baby loose in a basket in a car, but ultimately decides this probably doesn’t apply to the anti-christ) and gets in the front. Still playing it cool. He drives away, gradually getting out of sight until he turns the corner. Still playing it cool.

Then he turns, and he’s out of sight. And he stops playing it cool.

Once Crowley’s gotten as much swearing out of system as possible, he starts to consider it more. He knew the apocalypse was going to happen. But not _now_, not _yet_. Sometime in the far, distant future when he was bored of Earth and fed up with humans and needed a change of scenery, yes. But not _yet_. He likes Earth. He likes music, he likes his car, he likes his plants, he likes the subtle changes in human fashion every few years, he likes alcohol, he likes movies, he likes the Golden Girls. He likes _humans_, as much as he’d hate to admit it. One in particular, that he really wouldn’t want to see go down with the rest of them in seas of blood and roaring hellfire.

Maybe he could sneak Aziraphale into Hell. Except, Aziraphale most definitely would _not_ fit in with demons, and then he’d have to tell Aziraphale he’s a demon, something that Crowley’s sure will scare him off.

Then, perhaps, he could make a mistake. Crash his car. The baby dies, an honest mistake. No apocalypse. Except, there’d be literal Hell to pay if he dared to harm a hair on that child’s head. He’s not sure that he could, either way. He’s just an innocent baby. He doesn’t know he’s the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of this World, and Lord of Darkness. He can’t help it.

Crowley also couldn’t bear to do that to his car.

Okay, so, he takes the baby. Keeps it. It doesn’t get switched with the child it’s supposed to, it’s not raised to be evil, and it doesn’t cause the Apocalypse. Except, Crowley doesn’t know how to raise a child. He doesn’t know if he could even raise a child to be _evil_, let alone _good_. He briefly thinks about a person he happened to meet earlier, who happens to be very good. With a good _and _bad input, maybe…

Crowley forces that thought to stop in its tracks. He can’t raise a child, certainly not with a _human_, and certainly not the son of _Satan_.

“Shit,” he says, out loud. He was supposed to call Aziraphale when he got there. He checks the time. 3:12am, perfect. He pulls over by the side of the road and gets his phone out, dialling in the number that had been sat in his pocket.

“Hello, I’m afraid we’re closed,” Aziraphale’s voice comes through the phone after a few rings.

“It’s me, Crowley,” Crowley says, “I’m in Tadfield.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Aziraphale says, sounding genuinely relieved. Crowley can’t believe he’s known this man for a whole day and he already cares far more than anyone else he’s known. “The journey was okay? Do you have to do much?”

“Journey was fine,” Crowley says, “A40 was horrendous.”

“Oh, I bet.”

“Tried to cut up towards Chorleywood, but everyone seemed to want to be going to Aylesbury at two in the morning.” The thing is, Crowley wasn’t even using this as some minor torture like he’d been trying to with Hastur and Ligur, this was just him genuinely wanting to share anything and everything about his day with Aziraphale. And Aziraphale listened to every single word. "Took me bloody ages.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” Aziraphale says. “Are-” he starts, getting cut off by a car shooting past, honking loudly at Crowley on the side of the road. Crowley barely flinched, he was used to other drivers not particularly being a fan of him. Aziraphale, on the other hand, let out a startled noise, and the anti-christ started crying in the backseat.

“Oh, no,” Crowley groans, “really?”

“Is that…a baby?”

“Mm-hm,” Crowley mumbles, shoving his phone between his ear and his shoulder. He gets out the car and goes round to the backseat. He doesn’t particularly want to get any more involved with the anti-christ than necessary, but he still has a while to go to get to the nunnery, and he definitely doesn’t want to deal with a screaming baby the entire time.

“Why are you with a baby?”

“It’s, a, uh…my boss’ baby.” It’s not a _lie. _“Taking him to his mother’s.”

“That’s really your job?” Aziraphale questions. Crowley forgets to reply, because he’s staring into the eyes of the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of this World, and Lord of Darkness. While he screams his head off.

“Ah,” Crowley says, “um, argh,” he continues as he picks up the crying baby, holding it awkwardly away from him. You don’t just _cuddle_ the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of this World, and Lord of Darkness.

“Everything alright, Crowley?”

“Any idea how to comfort a crying baby?”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale says, not really one with much experience with young children, “they like…warmth and pressure, I think. A hug? Rocking, maybe? I think you can…sing to them?”

Crowley stares at the crying baby in front of him. He’s holding him at arms length. This is _Satan’s_ child. As high up as his bosses go. This infant outranks Crowley by millions. And he’s_ crying_. “Oh, fuck it,” Crowley says, holding the baby to his chest, bouncing him up and down gently. He keeps crying. He shifts him into one arm, and rocks him from side to side, like he’s seen parents do in movies. Crowley is _not_ equipped for this.

He doesn’t stop crying.

“Singing, you said?” Crowley asks.

“I don’t know. I think so. I might’ve made it up,” Aziraphale admits, “I’ve only got a few parenting books in my shop, and I read them so long ago…”

Crowley doesn’t question why Aziraphale has read the parenting books, nor the implication that he’s read every single book he owns. From all he knows about Aziraphale, that seems understandable.

He keeps rocking, holding the baby closer to his chest. He starts humming, a wordless melody. It soothes him a bit, and Crowley continues. He lets a few words come out, mostly mumbles and nonsense. The words to this lullaby weren’t things that Aziraphale should hear.

“It’s working!” Aziraphale says, excited on Crowley’s behalf.

“It actually is,” Crowley says, just as surprised. The moment he stops singing to talk, the baby starts fussing again and he continues quickly.

On the other end of the line, Aziraphale listens with a smile on his face, leaning against the bookshelf he’d been looking through for the parenting books. Crowley has a soothing voice and Aziraphale immediately loves listening to it. Even though he can’t make out many of the words, it sounds like a lovely lullaby to him. This small hint at a paternal instinct in Crowley doesn’t help how Aziraphale is already starting to feel about him.

“Right,” Crowley says, slightly melodically, between humming and singing, “I best…be off…”

“Yes, good luck,” Aziraphale says, wishing he could listen for longer, “I’ll…see you around, I suppose?”

“See you…around,” Crowley says, dropping the phone and throwing it back into the front seat. “Right, little one, we’ve gotta get driving now,” Crowley tells the baby, slowly putting him back in the basket, “so if you could just…”

It’s no use. The moment the baby touches the basket, the screaming and crying starts again. Crowley sighs.

“Alright, front seat with me, then.”

He picks the basket up and throws it in the passenger seat, before going round to the driver’s side and getting in, baby still in hand. “Now, I’m going to have to focus if I’m singing _and_ driving one-handed,” Crowley tells him, “so no crying. I don’t want any trouble with your father if we're both discorporated.”

Crowley hopes that what he’s seeing is understanding in the baby’s eyes, not new and fresh tears, ready to spring the moment Crowley starts the car. It turns out luck his on his side, because as long as he doesn’t take too long of a breath between singing, the baby stays perfectly happy, and therefore so does Crowley. The two of them speed away in Crowley’s Bentley, two inherently ‘evil’ souls that maybe aren’t quite so evil, after all.


	4. Copious Amounts of Alcohol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: the soundtrack for every single chapter of this is just queen's 'good old-fashioned lover boy' on repeat, maybe one 'love of my life' thrown in there

“Angel!” Crowley calls before he’s even slightly through the door to his shop. He’d already drank one bottle of wine on the way over, and he’s planning on drinking lots more. After he’d dropped off the anti-christ, the reality of the situation really hit. He’d stopped at a service station about 20 minutes into the drive to pick up a bottle of wine. The apocalypse was happening. In eleven years, yes, but still happening. He needs more alcohol.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, relieved for the entrance. He’d been attending to a customer which he’d rather not have.

That customer, as it happens, is Norman Addington, an accountant that works approximately 10 buildings down from A.Z. Fell & Co. He’s not a fan of books, never has been. The characters were always _too much_. Men would give up far too much for women, women would be far too outspoken, and children would be all-around far too badly behaved. But, his wife did happen to like books. Since it’s her birthday, Norman had decided he best stop at the nearest bookshop on the way to work, to avoid any silent treatments or unnecessary sulking on his wife’s behalf. He’d been to A.Z. Fell & Co. a few times, exactly a year apart every time. He was not particularly fond of Mr. Fell. He’s far too _expressive_ and _open_ for Norman’s liking. It’s perfectly fine if people want to live that lifestyle, he’d always say, but not in front of me, thank you very much. So he was putting up with Mr. Fell’s _flamboyance_ for the sake of having a meal on the table at the end of the day. However, this new fellow, Mr. Fell’s _partner,_ that was too much for Norman to take. He needs to get out of there, and fast, before any kind of _embracing_ happens. He’ll just pinch something from the office for his wife.

“I best be off, now,” Norman tells Mr. Fell, leaving the book he’d been eyeing up on the counter. He keeps a wide berth between him and the second Mr. Fell, before hurriedly rushing out the door.

Crowley watches the customer leaving for a moment, registering the dirty look he’d been giving Aziraphale, and then promptly gave to him, too. Crowley flicked his wrist and heard the man’s briefcase break open, irreparably so. Such a shame, poor Norman. It had been his favourite briefcase.

Crowley turns back to Aziraphale, “How do you feel about drinking copious amounts of alcohol again?”

“Oh, Crowley, you’re a lifesaver,” Aziraphale beams, “that man comes to buy a book every year, I can’t stand it.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t question why getting customers in your bookshop is a bad thing. “’s fine,” he says, “whaddaya say? Alcohol? Copious amounts?”

“It’s…” Aziraphale checks the clock on the wall, “6am, dear.”

Crowley shrugs, collapsing into the nearest chair.

“I’m guessing the job didn’t go well?” Aziraphale questions, his voice gentle and supportive. He starts making boiling the kettle. “Is the baby okay?”

“It’s rubbish,” Crowley says, “absolute rubbish. I don’t know why they had to get me all involved. I’d just rather…sit out. Baby’s fine, but nothing else is.”

“Want to talk about it?” Aziraphale asks, “Tea? Coffee? How do you take it?”

“Coffee,” Crowley says, “black, one sugar. I wish I could,” he means that, honestly, “but…contracts. Tricky stuff.”

Aziraphale nods as if he knows anything about it. That isn't exactly an angels department. Quite the opposite, really. “Well, whatever you can talk about, I’m always here,” he says, handing Crowley his coffee and sitting down with his hot chocolate.

Crowley smiles at him, genuinely. He’s never had anyone offer anything even slightly close to that.

“You just relax, yes?” Aziraphale says, “Have you got anything to do today?”

“I _was_ going to set up and open up my shop today,” Crowley says, “but that was before he- my company decided to kick off the end of the world.”

“Ha,” Aziraphale lets out, what he assumes to be an over-exaggeration on Crowley’s part hitting a little too close to home, given the recent events. “Let’s do that, then.”

“Hmm?”

“Let’s set up your shop. I can close mine for the day, and I’ll help out.”

“You’d really do that, angel?”

“Of course. I’m sure my many customers,” he gestures round the empty shop, “can survive one day, my dear.”

“Well, if you insist,” Crowley says. He can’t complain about spending a day with Aziraphale. Especially if he only has eleven more years of days on Earth. _Fuck_. He’s going to have to figure out something to do to stop this.

Aziraphale’s face lights up. He can’t bear to see Crowley unhappy, and he wants to make the next eleven years left as good as they possibly can. _Crowley only has eleven years left_. That’s not fair. Aziraphale _can’t_ let that happen. He knows this is all set in stone, all meant to happen, _ineffable_. But. _But_. It’s not fair. Humans have their own lives, it’s not fair to get rid of all that just for the sake of an argument between angels and demons. Crowley could only be halfway through his life, it’s not fair at _all_ that it’ll get cut off entirely short. Aziraphale needs to do something.

“So, what do you have to do first?” Aziraphale asks, letting his ideas on how to stop the apocalypse run through his head while he focuses on Crowley.

“I was going to go to Ikea,” Crowley says, “but it’s such a bloody pain.”

“Oh, I love Ikea,” Aziraphale says, with a beaming smile, “it is awfully confusing, but it’s like a little adventure.”

Crowley feels his heart warm, seeing the bright smile on Aziraphale’s face. _He_ did that. Sure, it means his demonic work is not-so-successful, but, it made Aziraphale happy. Aziraphale _likes_ his work. That’s something. “Ikea it is, then.”

Their trip is as to be expected. Aziraphale has several heart attacks in the car over. It will take him a _while_ to get used to Crowley’s driving, and he’s made a mental note to himself to try and walk rather than drive whenever possible when Crowley’s around. When they’re actually in the shop, their time mostly consists of Crowley getting frustrated and Aziraphale picking out anything and everything for Crowley. They end up with a lot by the end of it, thanks to Aziraphale. If it had been up to Crowley, he wouldn’t have bought anything but plants.

They also get a lot of plants, of course. Aziraphale had been enjoying spending time with Crowley regardless, but as soon as they got to the houseplant section Aziraphale enjoyed it even more. Crowley _lit up_. Aziraphale was surprised to see him pick out only smaller plants.

“No big ones?” he asks when they finish up with the plants and start to head towards the checkouts. “Like the ones you already have?”

Crowley shakes his head, “I’ve had those for years and years. Grew them from this size,” he picks up one of the smallest plants, “I like to grow them, rather than just maintain them.”

Aziraphale nods. He can’t stop staring at Crowley in amazement. Every new thing he learns about him he just likes him even more and gets even more fascinated by him. He _really_ cares about these plants. Aziraphale tries to pretend the light feeling in his chest is just appreciation and friendship, and not the first seeds of love.

“What?” Crowley asks, when the two of them are stood behind Crowley’s car, ready to load it up. Aziraphale hadn’t even realised he’d been staring at him.

“Uh, oh, nothing,” Aziraphale says, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from Crowley, “why don’t you start the car and I’ll start putting things in?”

Crowley gives him a suspicious look, but goes round to the front of the car. While he’s gone, Aziraphale waves his hand over the trolley quickly and miracles everything into the back of the car.

“That was quick,” Crowley says, when he comes back to help all of a few seconds later.

“I’m, uh, efficient,” Aziraphale says. Maybe that was a mistake.

“You are,” Crowley says, holding Aziraphale’s gaze for a lot longer than necessary. He can’t help it, he likes to look at him. Aziraphale starts to feel his cheeks redden under Crowley’s intense gaze. He wishes he could take Crowley’s sunglasses off. “Get in, angel.”

“Right, yes,” Aziraphale says. He tries not to trip up walking to the front of the car, still flustered. In the car, Aziraphale checks his watch. “How about some lunch, before we go home?”

Crowley turns to look at Aziraphale silently, one eyebrow appearing over the top of his sunglasses. He stays silent long enough to make Aziraphale nervous, before turning away again and starting to reverse the car. “Where do you want to go?”

“I’ve always liked the Ritz.”

“The Ritz?” Crowley questions, “Might be difficult to get a table.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

***

It is, actually, fine. In fact, when they get to the Ritz and ask for a table, there is coincidentally _two_ last-minute cancellations leaving tables open. Both Crowley and Aziraphale curse themselves for making the mistake of freeing up two tables.

“I do love the Ritz,” Aziraphale says when they sit down, smiling and laying his napkin across his lap. Crowley doesn’t touch his. His clothes know better than to get food on them.

“I’ve never been before,” Crowley says, “don’t go out for lunch much, really.” Don’t _eat_ much, really. Since angels and demons don’t have to each, Crowley hardly bothers. Takes up time and effort and he doesn’t see much of the point. He _can_ enjoy food, and does from time-to-time, but he much prefers a nice drink. Aziraphale, however, eats as much as - if not more than - a regular human. Food is one of his favourite things on Earth and he’s tried just about every dish imaginable.

Aziraphale looks scandalised at the idea of both a) having never been to the Ritz and b) not going out for lunch regularly.

“Mostly just…eat at home,” Crowley says, mistaking Aziraphale’s face for shock that he doesn’t eat, which he should, as a ‘human’.

“But we live in _London_, my dear boy. There’s so many wonderful restaurants!”

“You’ll have to show me some, then,” Crowley says with a smile, slightly mischievous. He can’t help but flirt, even though Aziraphale’s human. A waiter approaches their table, and Crowley just misses Aziraphale getting flustered and going red not for the first time that day.

Without having even glancing at the menu, Crowley orders some of his favourite wine. He gives Aziraphale a quick glance to check it’s okay. Aziraphale doesn’t give any semblance of confirmation, he’s too enraptured by Crowley. As someone that eats out, alone, on the regular, Aziraphale is used to ordering for himself. He’s also used to having very high standards and specific cravings or desires. So, having an incredibly attractive man sitting across from him, ordering for him without making even a _slight_ mistake, Aziraphale was frozen. He’s falling in love.

“Angel?” Crowley prompts, leaning towards him and peering at him slightly over the top of his sunglasses. But not _quite_ enough for Aziraphale to see his eyes, unfortunately.

“Um, yes,” Aziraphale says, trying to regain any sense of dignity before it’s gone entirely, “that’s perfect.”

“Two glasses, then,” Crowley says to the waiter again, before turning back to Aziraphale, “what do you want to eat? Dessert?”

_Oh no_, Aziraphale thinks, _he’s perfect_. He touches the menu instinctively, but stops himself. He already knows everything on it. “I’ll have the mousseline and the gru ganache, please.”

The waiter nods and turns to Crowley.

Crowley stares down at the menu in front of him. “I’ll have the…ah…soufflé,” he says eventually.

The waiter nods again, and disappears.

“Good choice,” Aziraphale says, “the soufflé is lovely.”

“You’re an expert, angel, aren’t you?”

“Well…” Aziraphale says, “I just like going out for lunch. Life’s little pleasures, you know?”

Crowley nods. He can understand that. Sure, some of the little pleasures Crowley enjoys Aziraphale _definitely _wouldn’t enjoy, like causing general inconveniences and small pockets of chaos wherever he goes. Crowley would much rather see someone trip on the street than eat a cake. He’s sure the same isn’t true for Aziraphale. He’s wrong, however, in that Aziraphale would take a small pleasure in that if it’s karma for negative behaviour. He knows it’s not very angelic of him, but the satisfaction of someone horrible receiving instant karma (which Aziraphale has had a helping hand in, maybe a few times) is undeniably enjoyable.

Although Crowley had never cared for eating out, he was starting to warm up to it by the time he and Aziraphale left the restaurant. He’d never had so much fun just sitting and eating. Eating is a bit of an overstatement, really. As soon as their food had arrived, Crowley had shovelled two precarious fork-fulls into his mouth and was finished. Aziraphale, on the other hand, took tiny, delicate mouthfuls and savoured each and every one of them. Crowley could hardly complain, because he got to watch Aziraphale for the entirety of it all, and he can’t deny how much he enjoyed both the faces and sounds Aziraphale made while he ate. Crowley would definitely be going out with Aziraphale again.

“Thank you for lunch,” Aziraphale says when the two of them get into Crowley’s car. Crowley had insisted on paying, mostly because he’d miracled the perfect amount into his pocket, but also because he wanted to be courteous and treat Aziraphale. He recognised the fallacy in a demon wanting to be a gentleman, but Crowley argued with himself that no demon had met Aziraphale before.

“It’s my pleasure,” Crowley says, genuinely, starting the car.

“We’ll have to do it again,” Aziraphale says, “my treat.”

Crowley smiles to himself. “Well, if you insist.”


	5. Expecting the Worst

The thing about being an immortal, celestial being that mostly keeps to themselves (not particularly out of choice, but due to the fact that there are very little other immortal, celestial beings in the area), is that when you do start to spend time with someone else, especially someone you _enjoy_ spending time with, it’s very easy to get caught up in it all and forget your life exists outside of this single relationship.

This is what happens to both Crowley and Aziraphale. They’ve known each other for all of two days, and spent a significant portion of those days together, and a much less significant portion of it thinking about _very important things_. The night before, the night they’d met, they both found out that the apocalypse was underway, and would reach its precipice in exactly eleven years time. This is a _big_ concern for both of them, as big lovers of all things human and Earth-bound. However, they’ve managed to entirely forget about the apocalypse for a good few hours.

That is, until they get back home and get rudely interrupted and pulled out of their blissful ignorance. Aziraphale is looking out the window when Crowley pulls up in front of the shops and immediately panics when he sees who’s stood inside his shop.

“Everything okay, angel?” Crowley asks, seeing Aziraphale’s wide eyes and panicked look. It’s fair for him to be concerned, really, given that Aziraphale is only really ever smiling. The face he has at the moment is the opposite of a smile.

“Uh, yes, perfectly fine,” Aziraphale says, glossing over the fact that he’s just remembered the apocalypse is on the way _and_ he has to deal with Gabriel for the second day in a row.

“Is there supposed to be a man in your shop?” Crowley peers round Aziraphale, frowning at the man looking around and picking up random books.

“He’s a, uh, man from my church,” Aziraphale makes up, “I should just go see what he wants, I’ll be out to help in a jiffy.”

“A jiffy,” Crowley repeats, his tone of voice fully expressing his current thoughts of _is this really the man I’m making friends with_? Aziraphale is already gone. Crowley watches him disappear out of view, then waves a hand behind him and miracles everything into his shop. No point putting in the extra effort.

***

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, pulling the blind down over the window to make sure Crowley isn’t visible, “how…lovely to see you again.”

“Yes,” Gabriel says, “we’ve got an update. On the antichrist.”

“Yes? Everything went…okay? With his birth?”

“It went fine. We’ve heard from our contact about his whereabouts.”

“Oh, yes?”

Gabriel hands him a slip of paper. Aziraphale glances at it quickly - an address and a name.

“Keep an eye on him,” Gabriel says, “make sure there’s no interferences. Have you found Crawly yet?”

“Um, no, not yet,” Aziraphale says, “but I’m looking,” he lies.

“Right. Hell will most likely send Crawly to keep an eye on the child, too, so watch out for him.”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale says.

“He’ll be easy to spot. Demons stand out like a sore thumb. Dirty, inelegant, evil smells. Keep us up to date.”

***

Crowley lays across one of the boxes, the picture of elegance. He flicks on the small TV fixed on the wall. This TV definitely hadn’t been there previously, but Crowley had never considered the fact that any real estate could come without a wall-mounted TV, and so the TV arrived when Crowley did.

With the background noise of some pointless period drama, Crowley starts to daydream about Aziraphale. He’s mostly thinking about how quickly he wishes he’d come back, but also looking forward to spending the rest of the afternoon with him. Crowley’s falling, _hard_. Probably the second hardest he’s ever fallen.

An irregular voice erupting from the TV interrupts Crowley’s happiness. Hastur. He’d forgotten Hastur had existed in his fixation on Aziraphale, not to mention the apocalypse.

Crowley takes his sunglasses off, takes a deep breath, then turns to the TV. On the screen, Hastur is in full period dress, at a guess Crowley would say Queen Victoria. Next to him, Ligur is a Prince or Lord of some kind.

“Hastur, you’re looking great,” Crowley says.

Hastur is taken aback for a moment, not understanding how his image translates to human media. “Thank…you…” he says, uncertain, then moves on, “did everything with the anti-christ go to plan?”

“Yes, all perfectly well,” Crowley says, “he should be crying in some nanny’s arms right now.”

“…nanny?”

“Doesn’t matter. Is that all?”

“You need to keep an eye on him,” Hastur says, “make sure nothing happens. We hear that Heaven is sending the angel Az-”

Crowley shuts off the TV quickly when he hears Aziraphale come in through the door. He grabs his sunglasses and slides them onto his face just in time to keep his eyes hidden from Aziraphale. He doesn’t need to scare him off just yet.

“Sorry about that, my dear,” Aziraphale says, definitely having noticed Crowley not having sunglasses on. He silently wishes he’d gone through the door just a little more quietly.

“Everything okay?” Crowley asks.

“Yes, all fine, they just needed some extra help around the church,” Aziraphale says. He wishes he didn’t have to lie to Crowley. He needs to start thinking of how he can keep an eye on this boy _and_ make sure he doesn’t start the apocalypse.

Crowley nods. He wishes he could give his attention fully to Aziraphale as he had been the whole morning, but now his brain is running through how the hell he’s going to prevent the apocalypse. It’s just as difficult as it sounds.

“That’s not important, though,” Aziraphale says, “let’s get this shop ready and going.”

“Yes, let’s.”

Another difficult thing about being an immortal, celestial being and having a human friend (at least, as far as you know) is that you have powers far beyond their comprehension. And, because you’re trying to be _subtle_ about the fact that you’re an immortal, celestial being, you have to hide these powers. So, assembling furniture that’s designed to be as hellish to assemble as possible (literally designed to be, thanks to Crowley) _would_ be as simple as snapping your fingers and it would all be ready just like that. It _could_ be that simple. But, since Crowley and Aziraphale are both entirely oblivious to one another’s true nature, it can’t be as simple as that. They have to go about it the human way instead.

Something like this is fairly torturous for most humans, and is a common source of fall outs among friends, couples, and family members. Or just a source of frustration on solo missions. However, for an angel and a demon that are used to having the kind of powers that mean not much physical effort ever needs to be put in, it’s even more of a challenge. Not only do they have to refrain from doing something extremely instinctual, but it’s all just rather _difficult _to do, anyway.

Not only this, but they’re both trying to work out how to stop the apocalypse throughout this all.

It’s only fair that, when Aziraphale goes next door to make some tea, several pieces of furniture get done miraculously fast. And when Crowley realises he forgot his plant mister and has to pop out to buy a new one, the rest of it all is miraculously finished when he gets back. They're both greatly relieved by this.

The thing is, even without their miracles for the most part, it _shouldn’t_ have been challenging. If you entirely disregard blatant miracles, angels and demons still have a huge subconscious influence over the world. The power of belief can be quite powerful in humans, but it is literally world-changing in angels and demons. If they believe something to be true, it will be. So they could easily believe that they can put together furniture easily, and they would.

However, Crowley knows Ikea well. He’s expecting the worst. And so, he gets the worst. Aziraphale, on the other hand, isn’t as familiar. He doesn’t, though, believe himself to be the most competent. He expects the worst from himself, and he gets it. Together, it takes them a while. It’s dark by the time everything is assembled.

“Well, that was exhausting,” Aziraphale says, finally able to relax on the sofa they’d made up. They hadn’t thought through the fact that maybe they should make up the seating first.

“You’re telling me,” Crowley says, still from his position on the floor. He can’t be bothered to stand up yet, so he’s just shifted himself round a bit so he’s leaning against the sofa, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other bent at the knee. It’s quite obscene, really, Aziraphale thinks. He can’t stop staring at him.

While he stares fixedly at Crowley’s legs, Aziraphale thinks through what he’s _actually_ going to do about the apocalypse. He’s thought it through a bit, now. He’ll do as Gabriel says, keeping an eye on the boy and making sure everything’s okay. But he doesn’t have to do anything else _yet._ He’s just a newborn baby. He doesn’t have _any_ good or evil in him, yet, and there isn’t much Aziraphale would be able to do about that either way. Maybe when he’s grown up a bit, he can find a way to have a bit of an influence on the child’s life, but he has at least has a few years to come up with a plan. He hopes.

Crowley had reached a similar conclusion. He doesn’t need to do anything, not yet. He’ll keep an eye out for that angel Hastur said about, whatever his name is, and then he can make sure the boy is as _normal_ as possible when he grows up a bit more.

“I think we deserve a drink,” Crowley says, thinking more about the apocalypse than any furniture.

“You’re trying to make me an alcoholic, my dear,” Aziraphale says.

“We’ve earned it.”

“Oh, we have,” Aziraphale says, standing up, “I’ll be back in just a moment.”

Crowley gets up, sauntering over to the one box of things he’d brought over to the shop. He might as well unpack some of it. He unloads the books onto his newly-assembled shelf. Mostly gardening books he’d bought to keep up appearances, as well as a few odd books he’d gotten throughout his years.

“You’ve got some books?” Aziraphale asks, right behind Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley practically launches himself into the ceiling.

“For hell’s sake, when did you get so light-footed?”

Aziraphale shrugs with a smile and hands Crowley a glass of wine.

“They’re just some bits I’ve collected over the years,” Crowley explains, watching the fascination spread over Aziraphale’s face as he admires the books. He runs his fingers along the spines, then freezes when he reaches a certain one, then slowly moves to the next, then the next.

“These books…” Aziraphale starts, “they’re very rare.”

“Oh, those,” Crowley glances at them quickly. He’d stolen them from some nazis that had been getting on his nerves. He’s considered throwing them away, or burning them, or giving them away, but a strange feeling told him he should keep them, so he did. “My…grandfather got them, in world war two. Stole them from some nazis.”

Aziraphale picks one of them out, with such a gentle and careful touch that it sends a shiver down Crowley’s spine. He opens the cover carefully and reads the handwritten inscription. “This is my book.”

“What?”

“I mean, my grandfather’s book. He told me about it. Lost a bunch of them to…nazis, in the second world war.”

“You mean…?”

“Your grandfather got my grandfather’s book back,” Aziraphale says. _This is fate,_ something irrational, but hopeful, tells him. Something deeper, and more hopeful, tells him _this is the ineffable plan_.

Crowley’s never been more glad he kept those stupid books. “They’re all here,” Crowley says, pulling out all of the books he remembers taking, “that my grandfather took.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, voice so tender and loving that Crowley all but melts into a puddle. “This is amazing.”

“Take them,” Crowley blurts out.

“No, I couldn’t possibly…”

“I mean it. They’re yours.”

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley in a way Crowley’s never been looked at before. “I’ve wanted these books for forever,” he says, “I looked for them everywhere. I even went to Germany,” he adds, with a laugh.

“They’re all yours,” Crowley insists, loving the smile on Aziraphale’s face and loving being the reason it’s there.

“Crowley, I really can’t-”

“Honestly, take them. I’ll be offended if you don’t.”

“Well, if you insist,” Aziraphale agrees. He looks back at the books for a bit, staring at them in amazement before turning that look to Crowley, again. “I can’t possibly thank you enough for this.”

“Just stick around, that’s enough,” Crowley says, sincerely. The love filling up inside Aziraphale practically explodes.


	6. One Year Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd half written this chapter and then had to come back to it after i was away for a work thing, and in my notes for the rest of the chapter i'd fully written "aziraphale is in love with crowley". i have NO idea what this was supposed to mean in the context of this chapter because OBVIOUSLY he is ? ? ? ? 
> 
> so in other news i'm dumb and i hope you enjoy the chapter after a mini break. aziraphale is in love with crowley.

Crowley decides, over the course of the next week after opening up his shop, that he doesn’t mind running a shop. He’s actually enjoying himself enough that he’s hardly done anything demonic. The closest thing to demonic activity has been driving back up to Oxford and spying on a baby a little bit. The spying couldn’t even be considered evil, because Crowley just made sure the parents were going out for dinner that night and then showed up as a ‘babysitter’. So, the closest Crowley’s gotten to being even slightly demonic is babysitting a newborn. He’s been distracted. He normally does better.

He’s still not 100% happy with the whole having customers thing. He’s already had to sell a couple plants (he immediately went out to buy more after that catastrophe), and he isn’t particularly happy about dealing with humans. Other than _one_ particular human that keeps coming round to bring him tea and coffee, or wine when it gets to closing time.

Crowley’s plants have started to really take to Aziraphale. They’ve learnt that whenever he’s around, Crowley plays nice and doesn’t yell at them or get rid of any of them. Aziraphale and Crowley are both yet to notice the significantly brighter plants and spontaneous blooming whenever Aziraphale’s around. Through Crowley’s eyes, the whole world feels brighter when Aziraphale’s around, as clichéd as it sounds. As a demon, there isn’t much brightness or happiness in the world, and Crowley already finds significantly more than he should according to his fundamental nature. Aziraphale brings even more into it, and Crowley can’t help but look forward to when Aziraphale inevitably comes over with a drink or food for him.

With each day that passes, they fall more and more for one another, and consequently spend more and more time together. After the first month of knowing each other, they’re spending most evenings together as well as small breaks throughout the day, and a lunch date every fortnight or so. Six months in, they go out every single week and spend their evenings together. Aziraphale will occasionally bring his food over to Crowley’s, normally along with a portion for Crowley because he’s realised how little Crowley actually eats. After a year, Aziraphale eats every meal with Crowley, and they’ll probably go out at least a couple of times a week. The few regular customers they have recognise both of them in each shop, and have started to make assumptions. That’s a given, though, considering most people that see Aziraphale and Crowley together for even a minute begin to make assumptions. This cannot be attributed more or less to either party. Individually, almost everyone that meets Aziraphale assumes he’s as gay as one could possibly get, and everyone that meets Crowley assumes he’s not quite heterosexual, but can’t really place him anywhere along a binary scale. So, it’s only understandable that when they’re put together, everyone makes the same assumption. Especially given how they tend to look at one another. Everyone else has seemed to have caught on, but they are yet to themselves.

If they were regular, middle-aged humans, they’d know everything there was to know about each other. Unfortunately, they’re not, and having to hide their true nature from one another means that they only know all there is to know about their present. They’ve hardly been able to say a word to each other about anything from their past, and have both had to stop themselves multiple times from saying something incriminating.

Aziraphale has considered a few times just telling Crowley the truth. He’s sure he’d understand. Crowley is quite relaxed and careless, Aziraphale’s sure it wouldn’t faze him. And after knowing him a year, he’s sure that Crowley wouldn’t stop talking to him just because he found out he’s not exactly human. It’s just the _what if_ that stops him, every time. That small chance that _maybe_ Crowley would freak out, or leave, or not want to see him anymore, that’s enough to scare Aziraphale into staying quiet, as much as he wants Crowley to know the truth.

Crowley, on the other hand, hasn’t considered telling Aziraphale. It has crossed his mind, of course, in the form of ‘I wish I wasn’t hiding a significant portion of my entire identity to the man I might possibly be in love with’, but he hasn’t considered it beyond that. He, unfortunately, doesn’t have the luxury of considering it as a possibility like Aziraphale does. Aziraphale is religious, kind-hearted, and the best person Crowley’s ever met. This includes Jesus Christ himself, because Crowley knew him fairly well, considering them being on opposite sides, and all. He was a pretty nice guy, but Crowley still prefers Aziraphale. The point is, no amount of time spent together and no fondness towards one another can change the fact that Crowley is a _demon_ and that his existence alone against any and all of Aziraphale’s beliefs. If he even tried to tell Aziraphale any part of it, he’d scare him off for good. He’s resigned himself to the fate of Aziraphale never knowing who he truly is.

“You’ve never told me much about your childhood,” Crowley says one day, when they’re sat in Aziraphale’s shop, having post-dinner drinks. Crowley’s been miserable for the last few weeks. It had been Warlock’s - the anti-christ’s - first birthday a month ago. Crowley was no closer to figuring out how to stop the apocalypse and now he’s only got 10 years left. Aziraphale had noticed Crowley’s change, and tried to help, but Crowley just kept pushing him away. Now, he’s turned round entirely and is focusing all of his energy and attention on Aziraphale, to avoid thinking about any more pressing issues.

“Oh, well, there’s not much to tell,” Aziraphale says, not knowing how he can phrase anything even remotely truthful without it sounding insane. He’d lost track of the specific dates, unlike Crowley, but he knew that the apocalypse was about 10 years away now. With each day that passed, he got more and more concerned, and more and more likely to tell Crowley the truth. He’s _sure _Crowley would get into Heaven, maybe it would all be okay, in the end.

Crowley just stares at Aziraphale, waiting for him to continue.

“My parents were very religious,” Aziraphale starts.

Crowley nods, “You said.”

“That was all I really knew growing up,” Aziraphale continues, speaking slower than normal to give himself time to think it all through, “and I guess, the longer I’ve lived without my parents, the more I see other parts of life and…being human.”

“Doubting your religion?” Crowley asks, with a small smile. Crowley hadn’t even been _trying_ to do that.

“No, no, of course not,” Aziraphale looks flustered and stressed, and Crowley backs off a bit. “It’s just…my parents would always go on about God’s _plan_, the ineffable plan-”

“Ineffable, haven’t heard that one before,” Crowley interrupts. The word gives him a strange sense of déjà vu, some deep buried memory that he can’t quite get his hands on. It feels important, and he desperately grasps, but it slips away.

“I just keep thinking,” Aziraphale continues, “what if the plan isn’t the _best_ thing for the world?”

Crowley sits more upright. This is definitely more his territory. “How do you mean?”

“Well, have you heard of the rapture?”

Crowley nods, “Like, the apocalypse?” That’s a wake up call. Aziraphale’s supposed to _distract _him. “Isn’t that a bit…American?”

“I know,” Aziraphale says, “it’s ridiculous really. If there’s going to be an apocalypse, God would hardly take the time to pick out Their favourites. We all saw what happened in Mesopotamia.”

Crowley frowns at Aziraphale. He’s hardly speaking like a human. Crowley remembers Mesopotamia. He got discorporated trying to save a bunch of kids.

“But, anyway,” Aziraphale continues, seeing the look Crowley’s giving him, “my parents have been convinced for ages that’ll happen, sometime _soon_. And I can’t help but think, do I really want to support that?”

“Well, it’s not actually going to happen, is it?” Crowley says, ignoring the fact that he’s been to several apocalypse-related meetings and is currently keeping tabs on the anti-christ.

“But let’s say it does,” Aziraphale insists, “Earth would be _destroyed._ I definitely don’t want that.”

“But you’d get in Heaven, of course, angel.”

“But what _interesting _things would there actually be in Heaven?”

“Well, if getting into Hell is what you prefer…” Crowley says, giving Aziraphale a smile and a look. Aziraphale goes bright red and spills wine all over himself. It’s a good thing he couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes, because he probably would’ve spontaneously combusted.

“Oh, oh _no_,” Aziraphale says, jumping up, “oh, I’ve looked after this for _so long_.”

Crowley gets up. “Here,” he sticks one hand out, “I’m great at getting stains out.”

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley, “Are you sure? Thank you.” He shrugs off his blazer and hands his waistcoat over.

“I’ll just be a moment,” Crowley smiles over his shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom.

Aziraphale waits anxiously. He _could_ miracle away the stain, of course, but he hates to do that when he takes such care to look after it. Besides, he can hardly do that in front of Crowley. He can always miracle away anything left over if he _really_ must.

When Crowley comes back and hands the waistcoat back to Aziraphale, he looks over the whole thing closely. “It’s not even _wet_.”

“Oh, I, uh, just…dried it off, a bit.”

Aziraphale nods, suspicious, before returning to his inspection. “There’s not a single _speck_.”

“I told you I was good.” Crowley starts to doubt whether that had been a sensible move. No one’s _that_ good at getting out stains, especially not in the two seconds it took Crowley to stand in the bathroom and get rid of the stain with sheer force of will (Crowley had gotten good at that, over the years). No one’s _that_ oblivious.

Aziraphale inspects it for a bit longer before he puts it back on, then beams up at Crowley. “Thank you,” he says, voice fully in sincerity. Crowley tries to shrug it off, but goes back to being glad he did it.

“’s nothing.”

“Not to _me_, it’s not.”

Crowley lets himself smile. “Anytime, angel.”


	7. The Nanny and the Gardner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so in the book they did this about two seconds after warlock was born, but in the show it was five years, so i've met in the middle a bit

Aziraphale sighs and sits at his desk, staring at a small, two year old slip of paper.

_Warlock Dowling. 42 Waterhouse Lane._

The paper is worn and crumpled from the hours Aziraphale has already spent staring at it, and taking it in and out of various pockets and hiding spots. Crowley’s caught him a good few times, teasing him that it’s someone’s phone number or something equally as ridiculous. If Aziraphale paid any kind of attention, he’d have noticed the blatant jealousy hidden under Crowley’s forced laughter. He didn’t, of course, though.

Aziraphale is starting to panic now. The anti-christ is two and a half years old. The apocalypse is eight and a half years away. Aziraphale has to do _something_.

Last night, Aziraphale had been over at Crowley’s after they’d gone out for dinner, and Crowley had been watching TV. Aziraphale had never been one for television, always choosing books as entertainment over any kind of technology that he doesn’t understand. However, since meeting Crowley, Aziraphale’s been warming up to it more. Crowley’s a big fan of television and movies, and he’s always watching something or going out to see something. He’s dragged Aziraphale out with him to the cinema a few times, but Aziraphale definitely prefers just watching something on Crowley’s TV, away from prying and judgemental eyes. For the life of him, Aziraphale can’t seem to figure out why he gets significantly more judgemental looks when he’s out with Crowley.

So, last night, Crowley had been watching TV while Aziraphale read a book next to him, but mostly got distracted and ended up watching with Crowley. A documentary had come on about child development. Aziraphale expected Crowley to switch over to something he deemed more interesting, which he normally never hesitated to do. This time, though, he stayed and watched with rapt interest. Aziraphale went back to his book, but the show got his attention went it started talking about moral behaviours in children.

Apparently, children start to develop their morals between the ages of 2 and 5. After that, they’re not necessarily set in stone, but the groundwork has been laid for the future.

This, immediately, made Aziraphale start to panic. He worked it out in his head quickly, concluding that the anti-christ was exactly 2 years, 8 months and 11 days old. His morals are being decided and influenced at that very moment. And if the demon Crawly is involved, they could be heading in a bad direction. An apocalyptic direction. 

This is what triggered Aziraphale’s panic. He would’ve ran out immediately to try and start working on a plan, if it hadn’t been for Crowley immediately jumping and and spewing something about alcohol before returning with two _large_ glasses of wine. Aziraphale could sense something was wrong with him, and kept getting that throughout the rest of the night. He tried to drink slowly so he could keep an eye on Crowley, and he kept trying to say something and ask what was wrong, but Crowley dodged all questions and focused all of his attention on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale eventually gave up and joined in. He could work out a plan in the morning, he could probably use the distraction for a bit.

So, that’s what brought him here, now, staring at this piece of paper trying to figure out what to do. Before he can even try anything, the door swings open and Crowley struts in. It takes Aziraphale a moment to recognise him, considering the fact that he’s a woman.

Aziraphale, being a genderless angel, had no particular attachment to gender. He stuck with presenting as male because it was easier and he’s particularly fond of men’s clothes. This is why he’d barely even noticed when Crowley occasionally presented as female. It had happened for about a week, once, and Aziraphale didn’t question it. He knew humans were starting to experiment with gender more these days, and if anyone would he knew Crowley definitely would. However, after that week Crowley went back to his regular look. Aziraphalequestioned it once, asking if anything in particular had happened. Crowley gave him a vague, off-handed reply about sometimes doing that but wasn’t particularly feeling it at that moment.

In reality, Crowley is a genderless demon, unbeknownst to Aziraphale. He has even less attachment to gender than Aziraphale but likes to go big or go home in terms of his appearance. Sometimes he’ll be feeling like a more masculine look, other times more feminine. But either way, he goes all out. However, since single days and weeks and months are particularly short periods of time for centuries-old beings, he tends to stick with one look for a good few years before moving onto another. He’d been starting to get bored when he presented as a woman for a week, but changed his mind when he realised he wanted a different look. He started tying up his hair instead, got a new jacket and swapped his scarf for a necklace. It was good enough.

Right now, though, Aziraphale is a bit taken aback by Crowley’s new look. Not necessarily the feminine aspects of it, but more the _Nanny McPhee _aspects of it. He doesn’t like Crowley’s new sunglasses purely for the fact that they _just barely_ hide Crowley’s eyes. In the last two years, it had been killing Aziraphale that he still hasn’t seen Crowley’s eyes. He also decides that he’s just as attracted to Crowley when he’s a woman.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says with a smile, shoving the paper under a pile of books.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley nods, “I’m off today, down Surrey way.”

“Oh?”

“Remember the kid I had to chauffeur a couple years ago? My bosses kid?”

“Mm, the one you’ve babysat a few times?” Aziraphale asks, getting up to stand face-to-face with Crowley. He absentmindedly touches the bow on Crowley’s collar. Crowley swallows. Hard.

“Yes,” Crowley says, “they need a full-time nanny now, apparently.”

“And they couldn’t hire an actual nanny instead of constantly using you as an errand boy?”

Crowley smiles in appreciation of Aziraphale’s immediate support, “He’s very particular about who he trusts with his kid. I just wanted to ask, can you keep an eye on the shop today? Make sure the plants are okay, watered and everything?”

“Of course, I’d love to.”

***

Aziraphale sticks his head into Crowley’s shop after he’s had his lunch. He tries to pretend he doesn’t deeply miss Crowley’s company while he eats. He’s been contemplating what he can do about the anti-christ all morning. He needs to find some way he can influence his upbringing, making sure he has a good, heavenly influence. _Maybe_ if Aziraphale makes sure he’s morally sound, he won’t _want_ to bring about the apocalypse. It can all be entirely avoided, just _how_ is the question.

He thinks about this as he waters Crowley’s plants. Being a nanny like Crowley would be perfect, but Aziraphale isn’t sure he’d be able to pull that off. He needs to be something, some_one_, that’s always around, one of the staff. He’s the son of an American diplomat, they must have _plenty_ of staff, a huge house, huge grounds, the lot.

When Aziraphale gets to Crowley’s bigger plants (tucked away out of customers’ reach), the thought crosses his mind that Crowley would probably love the Dowlings’ house because they’d have endless amounts of plants in the garden for him to nurture and grow.

A _gardener, _Aziraphale realises. Of course! It’s perfect. Little kids will always want to play out in the garden, so Aziraphale can always be there to teach him a good lesson.

Aziraphale gets excited at the thought. He finishes off watering Crowley’s plants, and then he’s off to get a job as a gardener.

***

Crowley’s first day is okay. He won’t admit how much he enjoyed looking after young Warlock. This is the _anti-christ_, he has to keep reminding himself. Yes, he’s a helpless two-year-old that needed Crowley’s help for just about everything, but he still incredibly outranks Crowley and every other demon he’s ever met. Not only that, but Crowley’s a _demon_. He’s not supposed to enjoy children. He’s supposed to hate and corrupt children. As far as anyone from Hell knows, Crowley is doing this to ensure Warlock’s upbringing is as evil and corrupted as possible. Can’t possibly risk the anti-christ not wanting the apocalypse to happen. So, Crowley’s - secretly - working towards exactly that. He doesn’t know if the angel that Hastur mentioned is involved at all, but Crowley can’t rely on their intervention. Crowley’s giving Warlock an extremely normal upbringing, and while it feels odd to teach him good and bad values simultaneously, it’s for the best. But he really is screwed if Hell ever finds out.

“How was your day?” Aziraphale asks him when he gets in, having gone immediately to Aziraphale’s instead of his own place. That can wait.

“Exhausting,” Crowley answers, collapsing onto the sofa. “I love kids, but-” Crowley hesitates for a moment, shocked by the unexpected truth he just let out, “they’re a lot.”

“Ah, I’m not surprised,” Aziraphale says, turning away from the pile of gardening books he’d pulled out from around the shop to start researching for his new ‘job’, “how old is he?”

“Two,” Crowley says. He starts pulling apart his outfit, piece by piece. He’d enjoyed dressing up extravagantly to play the part, but he also wants to relax, and this outfit isn't the best suited to it. Aziraphale watches each and every movement as Crowley takes off his jacket, bow, hat, and slowly pulls pins out of his hair one by one. Aziraphale’s sure his brain short circuits for a moment watching Crowley’s perfectly styled curls fall loosely around his face. “Cute but hellish age.”

It takes a moment for Aziraphale to register that Crowley’s even speaking to him. When he does, he sits up suddenly, forcefully pulling his eyes away from Crowley and looking just about everywhere else but at him. “Yes, I can imagine.” _Two_, Aziraphale thinks, _maybe Crowley can give some advice on how to deal with the anti-christ?_ Again, Aziraphale imagines telling Crowley the truth. He’s gotten so close so many times, but just can’t quite bring himself to do it. What if he scares him off?

“You know, I just asked you to water my plants, you don’t have to become a professional at gardening,” Crowley comments. It takes a while for Aziraphale to realise that he’s talking about the piles of books spread out on his desk.

“Oh, that,” Aziraphale says, quickly trying to come up with a lie, “my church is starting a community garden, I told them I’d help out a bit. Thought it would be a good opportunity to sort through the gardening section of the shop.”

Aziraphale glances away at the books, just for a _second_, and when he turns back Crowley’s swapped his sunglasses back to his usual pair. Aziraphale doesn’t mean to let out a small noise of frustration, but he really can’t help it.

Crowley raises his eyebrows so that they appear over the top of his sunglasses. “Something wrong?”

“You’re infuriating,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley smiles. “Am I?”

“Deeply,” Aziraphale answers, “why do you always wear sunglasses, all the time?”

Crowley shrugs. He can hardly say they’re to hide his significantly serpent-like eyes. “I like them. Don’t you?”

“No, yes, of course I do. But we’ve known each other for almost three years, my dear, and I haven’t seen your eyes _once_.”

Crowley gives him a mischievous smile, pretending to tease, trying to hide the fact that he actually _can’t_ show Aziraphale his eyes. Not unless he wants him to realise he’s a demon or think he’s satan or the anti-christ. “Why does it bother you so much, angel?”

“We’re _friends_, Crowley,” Aziraphale insists, “I know everything else about you, but I don’t even know what colour your eyes are.”

“Brown,” Crowley answers, too quickly, “nice and boring brown. Nothing interesting.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale gets up, coming and sitting next to him on the sofa. “It’s only me, why are you hiding?”

Aziraphale reaches a hand up, ready to take Crowley’s glasses off. One finger just barely touches the frames and Crowley leaps up. The glasses fall off and clatter to the floor, and Aziraphale immediately looks up. Crowley’s turned away, looking towards the floor. Aziraphale’s sure that he’s going to implode. Crowley’s eyes are _right there_.

“I should, ah, get changed, and, the, uh, skirt,” Crowley mumbles incomprehensibly, still avoiding looking anywhere near Aziraphale. He leaves quickly, half his clothes and his sunglasses still scattered around Aziraphale’s shop.

Aziraphale swears to himself. He better not have screwed this up.


	8. A 16 Day Long Nap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ready for some angst?

After Crowley’s changed back into his usual clothes, he sits for a bit, alone. He wants to go back to Aziraphale’s. He wants to spend more time, as much time as possible, with Aziraphale. He only has just over eight years left with him. Then all of this is brought to dust. If Crowley’s plan doesn’t work. He still holds out some hope for it (he is an optimist at heart, after all, not that he'd ever admit it), but it all feels a bit redundant. He feels entirely alone in his efforts and, consequently, in the world. He knew it would be better if he could tell Aziraphale, but he can’t. He _knows_ he can’t.

This whole thing with his eyes has just made it all worse. Sure, he could make his eyes look human and normal for Aziraphale, and it would all be fine. But. _But_. Crowley’s already lying to Aziraphale enough, and it’s already so painfully difficult to do that, he can’t add another thing to the list. He wants to be genuinely himself in front of him. He _wishes_ he could take his glasses off and just let Aziraphale see what he sees, but he’s sure he’ll think he’s some kind of satanist. Crowley would prefer he know he’s a demon than _that_.

But he can’t know any of it. Crowley knows this, and he’s known it for the last two and half years, but it really hits him now, full force. Aziraphale can _never_ know. The apocalypse is most likely going to happen, cutting their friendship off painfully short. Even if it doesn’t happen, Crowley knows he’ll have to cut it off himself. Aziraphale will realise eventually, when Crowley doesn’t age in the slightest while Aziraphale gets old and weak. Without the apocalypse, Aziraphale’s life is still limited. Every direction he turns, Crowley’s trapped. There is _no_ future with Aziraphale, and he can’t seem to get this into his head. Either Aziraphale finds out he’s a demon and hates him, or Aziraphale dies sooner or later, and goes to Heaven where Crowley can never follow.

Maybe this is all a bad idea.

***

Just a thin wall away, Aziraphale is just as conflicted as Crowley, for different reasons. He can’t figure out for the life of him why Crowley won’t let him see his eyes. Is something wrong with them, is he hiding something? Aziraphale wishes he could tell him that he’d accept absolutely anything, and would probably love it just as much as every other part of him. Except, no, he can’t say that. He’s an angel. Crowley’s a human. No love of any kind is allowed there.

Not that it matters, anymore. Aziraphale’s sure he’s screwed it all up, now. He’d been going strong for almost three years, but it was doomed to fail from the start. And now, for whatever reason Crowley has to hide his eyes from him, Aziraphale’s betrayed that. He invaded his privacy, broke his trust, and now Crowley probably hates him. Aziraphale would cry if he weren’t on edge waiting and praying that Crowley would walk back in. After a while, he picks up Crowley’s glasses off the floor and folds them nicely on the counter. After a longer while, he picks them up again, turning them over and over in his hands.

Aziraphale promises himself he’s going to do better from now on. He’ll respect Crowley’s privacy. He’ll do everything he can to make Crowley happy. He can’t love Crowley, but he can be the best friend he can and make the last eight years of his life worthwhile.

He waits pretty much the rest of the night hoping Crowley will walk back in. He doesn’t. Crowley, the other side of the wall, is torn for a while whether or not to go back. To talk to Aziraphale. He decides against it, in the end. No matter how this ends, and it definitely will, it’s going to hurt for both of them. Crowley would put his own heart on the line if it meant more time with Aziraphale, and making Aziraphale happy. But he can’t do that to Aziraphale. He knows he needs to keep his distance. He’d been foolish, spending so much time with him day in, day out. He’d been a hopeful fool in love. Now reality has hit, and Crowley knows that as much as this will hurt, he has to do it for Aziraphale’s sake.

He closes up the shop, noticing the light still on next door. His heart aches to be there, instead of here. He pushes down the feelings and goes up to bed. He hasn’t slept much since he met Aziraphale, but he knows he needs it now. Of course, he never _really_ needs it, not as a demon. But emotionally, he needs the time away from his thoughts and the deep hollow feeling taking root in his chest.

He sleeps through the entire night, wakes up to an alarm he didn’t remember setting, reminding him that he’s supposed to be going to nanny for the anti-christ. He calls in sick. He’s sure Warlock can manage a day without turning evil. The day turns two, and then a week, and then a fortnight. Crowley wakes up every now and then, assesses how he feels, then goes right back to sleep. Avoiding his problems and feelings through sleep is his specialty.

***

Aziraphale starts to worry the first day of Crowley’s nap. He’d been worrying all morning, after what had happened the night before. It takes a lot to force himself to go to Crowley’s around lunch. Might as well stick to the routine, he reasons with himself. It would be strange if he didn’t. That would prove something is up, and it’s not. Not at all. He gets food from one of their favourite restaurants, then goes over to Crowley’s. The ‘CLOSED, GO AWAY’ sign is hung up on the door. That doesn’t mean much. It doesn’t concern Aziraphale. Crowley has particularly inconsistent opening hours and tends to leave the shop shut for days at a time when he’s had enough of customers. What _does_ concern Aziraphale is that when he tries the door, it’s locked. Any time Aziraphale’s come over, it’s always open.

He knocks, hoping that Crowley has just finally started listening to his advice to lock his door. They_ are_ in London, after all. There’s no answer. He tries again. Nothing. After a good half hour stood outside, Aziraphale gives up. Mostly because of the odd looks he's started getting from passersby. One man stopped to tell him that the shop is shut, try again later and stop pestering to poor bugger. So Aziraphale does. He comes back that evening, and then later in the night. And the next day. And the next. He calls Crowley a couple of times, but gets nothing in return. By the time it reaches a full week, the worry is all-consuming.

Aziraphale had put off starting gardening at the Dowling’s, because of his worry about Crowley. But, by the end of the first week since his disappearance, Aziraphale decides he has to start. He can’t put this off any longer; the fate of the world is at stake. He’s distracted throughout it all, worrying about Crowley and where he’d gone or what had happened. He even tried calling the police, once it had hit two weeks. Apparently, Anthony Crowley didn’t exist. Not in London, anyway. Aziraphales starting to think that maybe he imagined him for the last two years when he runs into him after a whole 18 days of nothing.

***

Crowley had slept for 16 days. It wasn’t entirely deliberate, but it also kind of was. He’d slept for far longer, before. He would’ve continued if it weren’t for the apocalypse. On the 17th day, he spends the entire day sulking around his shop, keeping everything shut up to avoid any other people. He knows he has to go back to work tomorrow, but he really doesn’t want to go back to life. If he goes back to normal then he’ll notice that it’s _not_ normal because he can’t keep Aziraphale in his life. He spends most of the 17th day going back and forth on whether he can just ignore all sense and continue his friendship with Aziraphale.

His phone rings a few times. Crowley doesn’t even look at it because he knows who it is and he doesn’t trust himself to not pick up.

On the 18th day, he forces himself to get dressed again and drive down to the Dowling’s. He has to get back to functioning, Aziraphale or not. That’s when Aziraphale catches him.

He’s just getting in his car when Aziraphale spots him through the window. Aziraphale moves faster than ever to shoot out the door and grab Crowley before he can go anywhere.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, still uncertain that Crowley’s even _real_ anymore. He holds his arm in a tight grip. He definitely feels real.

“Hi, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, mostly avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes. He tries to act as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't just disappeared of the face of the Earth for 17 days. He fails.

“What happened? Where did you go?”

“I, uh, nowhere,” Crowley says, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Crowley, it’s been over two _weeks_. I’ve been worried sick. I called the _police_.”

Crowley makes a face. Of course. Two weeks is a long time for humans. He should’ve thought this through, at least a little bit. “Sorry,” he says, “it was a, uh, family…stuff.”

Aziraphale’s look softens, and his grip loosens, but stays. “I’m sorry. Do you need to talk about anything? I’m always here if you need anything at all.”

“I’ve just…got to get to work. Sorry.”

Aziraphale lets his grip falter when Crowley pulls away, stood there in stunned silence as his car pulls out and disappears down the road. He’s even more confused than before he’d seen Crowley.

Aziraphale goes back into his shop. He’s not working today, thankfully. He needs some time to think about what on Earth just happened. Crowley has family stuff going on. Something with his parents? Siblings? Does he even have siblings? The longer Aziraphale thinks, the more he realises how little he actually knows about Crowley. And, judging by what the police said, he might not even _be_ Crowley. Aziraphale feels like his life from the last two years is crashing down around him and he has no idea what to do about it or how to handle it. Was any of it real?

***

Crowley is miserable. He’s doing his best to raise Warlock to not destroy the Earth and trigger Armageddon, while simultaneously avoiding the man he’s starting to think might truly be the love of his life. Aziraphale is persistent, but Crowley knows he’s noticed the change. They still spend time together, of course, but all through Aziraphale’s persistence. It’s killing Crowley.

It makes no sense. Crowley spent practically every hour of the day with him for almost three years, and was sure they were just particularly close friends, and just someone he greatly enjoyed the company of. Now that they’re apart, and that Crowley realises that any kind of relationship with him - platonic or otherwise - has absolutely no future, he’s realising how in love he is. Every moment apart from Aziraphale is killing him, and it’s breaking his heart to constantly turn him down and reject him. He’s sure Aziraphale will hate him soon enough. He wouldn’t blame him, but it won’t make it any less painful. At least it'll be easier for Aziraphale, in the long run.

After a few months of this, Aziraphale decides something has to change. Warlock has just turned three, meaning there’s exactly eight years left until the end of the world. Aziraphale refuses to spend the possibly last eight years on the Earth barely speaking to Crowley.

So, when Crowley’s car pulls up outside the shops after whatever he’d been doing, Aziraphale immediately gets up and climbs into the passenger seat.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, clearly confused, “What are you…?”

“We’re going to lunch.”

“Bu..wha…” Crowley can barely even process his thoughts. They hadn’t been to lunch in two months. Not that he’d been counting.

“I want to go to lunch,” Aziraphale insists, “no protests allowed.”

Crowley stares at him, bewildered.

“I mean it. Let’s go.”

Crowley stares for a bit longer, letting a small smile creep across his face. He doesn’t have a choice, really. He’s got to do this. To avoid suspicion. The fact that he’s desperately missed Aziraphale and their lunch dates has absolutely no part in it, not at all.

“Well, if you insist.”

After that, things slowly start to go back to normal. Aziraphale had been planning to confront Crowley (it took a lot of working up and rehearsing in his head to even get to that point, and he was simultaneously annoyed and relieved that he never got to do it) and ask him what the hell is going on, why is he avoiding him and when can they be friends again. But, after that one lunch date, they slowly slipped back into their old habits until everything felt almost normal again. Crowley tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, to still keep up the facade in his mind that he was doing the right thing and protecting Aziraphale. He eventually decided it was too painful, and Aziraphale didn’t seem the slightest bit happy. Maybe Aziraphale would be miserable later on, when he found out about Crowley, but at least he’d be happy now. He let everything go back to normal, with a renewed feeling of love towards Aziraphale. Where he’d been in denial before, now he could in no way deny it. He’s in love with Aziraphale. He can never, ever, _ever_ be with him, but he loves him. Those are the only two things he knows for certain, at this moment. While it is horrendously painful to spend time with Aziraphale, feeling all that love towards him and being so _desperate_ to be able to show it, to feel it in return, Crowley had still never been happier.


	9. Wrong Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was originally going to be part of the next chapter but i've had to split it up because i couldn't bear to split it at any other point (you'll understand when you read the next one), hence why it's super super tiny. i promise i'll make up for the next chapter, which will be HUGE and i've already written most of it so it should be on it's way to you soon

It’s a miracle - not a real one, but a coincidental one - that Aziraphale and Crowley don’t run into each other on the job. For 8 years they worked within close proximity to each other, with the same ever-growing young boy, and yet never notice one another. They both believe they’re doing a good job. It's debatable for both of them. So far, Warlock seems to be entirely normal and not evil in the slightest. This concerns Crowley, somewhat, because there’s been little to no resistance or any signs that he actually _is_ the anti-christ. Crowley hopes he can chalk this up to a job well done, but something in the back of his mind tells him it has other, worse, implications. Aziraphale, knowing nothing about the nature or the development of the anti-christ beyond him being the son of Satan and causing the apocalypse, is entirely oblivious to any issues.

They both quit on his tenth birthday. Crowley comes back to babysit every now and then, to keep an eye on him, and Aziraphale comes back as a tutor to watch out for any negative influences. In the 10 years the anti-christ had been on Earth, Aziraphale had seen no evidence of Crawly anywhere near the boy. That was the one part of it that worried him slightly. He heard things from Warlock about his nanny, and he had a slight suspicion that maybe they could be Crawly, but he’d never actually _seen_ Warlock’s nanny, so he couldn’t say for certain. He’s sure he’d recognise a demon if he saw one, though. Like Gabriel had said; they’re horrible, ugly creatures. Aziraphale would recognise one in an instant.

Crowley had hardly bothered to look out for the angel that Hastur had warned him about. He had worse concerns and he hardly doubted that Heaven would be putting in any particular effort to influence the anti-christ. They wanted this all to happen just as much as Hell does, Crowley’s the only one that actually wants to stop it all. He’s still not truly sure he can do it, but he can hope for the best.

A year after quitting, Warlock’s eleventh birthday finally rolls around. The whole morning, Crowley feels sick to his stomach worrying what might happen. If all has gone to plan, he’ll turn away the hell hound that should arrive promptly at 3pm. If he doesn’t, then Crowley might as well just give up. They’re all as good as dead.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, having been trying to get Crowley’s attention for a good few minutes now, “Is everything okay?”

“Hmm?” Crowley says, pulling his attention away from a fixed point on the wall to look at Aziraphale.

“I thought you’d gone back to yours,” Aziraphale says. The night before, after they’d had dinner together, Aziraphale had gone upstairs to read some books to distract himself from the next day’s events. Crowley said he’d see himself out, but now here he is, still sat on Aziraphale’s sofa.

“Yes, sorry,” Crowley says, “I…fell asleep, I guess.” He hadn’t really fallen asleep. He’d gotten distracted with deep, terrifying thoughts of the world collapsing into rubble and ash and Aziraphale going with it. Somehow, the last eleven years had gone by in the blink of an eye, and now it was all here, happening right now. He thought he’d have more time with Aziraphale, but now he might not have any longer than a week. Those thoughts were enough to see him through the night.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale hovers in the doorway, his face covered in concern and worry. Crowley feels bad for worrying him like this.

“Yes, perfectly fine,” Crowley says, getting up, “got a busy day today, is all. Some work to do.”

“Ah, I see. Will you be around for lunch?”

The hopeful look in Aziraphale’s eyes just about kills Crowley. At lunch, Crowley will be at an eleven-year-old’s birthday party counting down the minutes until a giant, monstrous dog arrives. He knows where he’d much rather be. “‘fraid not,” Crowley says, “tomorrow, though?”

Aziraphale smiles, “Sounds delightful.”

“I best be off, now,” Crowley says, getting up and straightening his clothes, “see you later, angel.”

***

The party is as painful as any eleven-year-old’s party would be. Crowley expected that, with the added tension of staring at his clock ticking away towards 3pm, one second at a time. As soon as the hour flicks over, his whole body tenses. But it doesn’t come. Crowley waits, on edge, and it still doesn’t come. Eventually he gives up and goes back to his car. No hell hound.

_No hell hound_.

It’s the wrong boy.


	10. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go

Without Crowley around to distract him and keep his mind occupied, Aziraphale starts to lose his mind alone in the shop. It’s the anti-christ’s eleventh birthday, meaning today is the day the apocalypse kicks off. Aziraphale isn’t sure what’s going to happen, or how it’s going to happen (and all of the other angels are pretty useless on that front, too, not they’d answer any questions of his), but it’s going to happen, one way or another, and Aziraphale can do nothing to stop it.

Sometime in the afternoon, he decides he can’t take it anymore and goes for a walk around London. He knows he could go and check up on the anti-christ, but it’s not particularly inconspicuous to show up at an eleven-year-old’s birthday party out of nowhere, and he’s not really sure what exactly he’d be looking out for, anyway. Glowing eyes? Demons gathering? Satan rising from the depths of Hell to wish his son happy birthday? No, he can go check up on him tomorrow, when things are easier and he can sneak around better.

Aziraphale doesn’t know when Crowley’s supposed to be getting home, which doesn’t help. It means he’s just sitting around endlessly with no time to count down towards. He can’t wait, either way. He needs _some_ kind of distraction, and he especially hates being apart from him so close to the possible end of Crowley’s time on Earth. He wants to take full advantage of the little time he has left with Crowley. Aziraphale spends a good while staring at the phone, debating whether or not to call, but decides against it, in the end. Crowley had seemed stressed, that morning. He doesn’t want to add any pressure on to whatever’s going on.

He forces himself out the door instead, wandering around the nearby area for a bit, stopping in a bakery for a snack before he gives up and heads back home again. His door is unlocked when he gets home, which is strange because he’s _sure_ he locked up behind him. He makes a silent prayer that it’s not Gabriel again paying another visit about the anti-christ. He doesn’t think he can handle seeing him just yet.

As soon as Aziraphale sees Crowley sprawled out across his sofa, fast asleep, he lets out a breath of relief. No Gabriel, and Crowley’s home. Two in one. Aziraphale immediately notices how Crowley’s glasses have slipped down his nose, revealing his closed eyes, eyelashes occasionally fluttering against his cheeks. It leaves Aziraphale breathless. He stares for a bit too long. It doesn’t help that Crowley’s wearing a white suit jacket and shirt, a stark contrasting to his standard all-black skinny jeans and jacket look. Aziraphale can’t object to this change. White suits Crowley far too much for it to be fair.

Aziraphale tries to continue about as if Crowley’s not there, not wanting to disturb him when he’s very clearly tired, but he still can’t stop staring. He tries to tidy his desk a bit, clearing all the books piled up and open on it, but Crowley keeps distracting him, even unconscious. It’s that _white_. That’s why one of his books slips out of his hands, falling to the floor with a solid _thud_. Aziraphale doesn’t move his eyes from Crowley, because the sound disturbs him and he’s sitting bolt upright. Aziraphale _sees_ his eyes open, but then Crowley’s facing away, the glasses are pushed up again, and the mystery remains a mystery.

“Sorry, sorry,” Aziraphale says, snapping back to himself, “must’ve slipped.”

Crowley spins round, getting his feet back on the floor. “I need a drink,” is all he says, before stumbling across the shop and into the back room. It’s at this point that Aziraphale notices the empty bottle of wine on the floor next to the sofa. He hadn’t even been gone _that_ long.

Crowley returns with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey, pouring out a glass each and handing one over to Aziraphale.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, watching Crowley throw back the entire glass in one, then pour out another. And throw it back again, before Aziraphale’s even taken a sip of his. Crowley starts to pour a third glass, but changes his mind, putting the glass down and returning to the sofa with the bottle instead. “Is everything alright?”

“Mmm,” Crowley says, pulling off his jacket and throwing it down on the sofa next to him, “perfectly fine.” He continues pulling apart his outfit; undoing his top button, loosening his shirt, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. The whole process nearly sends Aziraphale into cardiac arrest and the final product doesn’t exactly help, either, sending his heart into a frenzy.

Aziraphale abandons the books on his desk, sitting down instead with his glass of whiskey. His eyes don’t leave Crowley for one second.

Halfway through another big gulp, straight from the bottle, Crowley freezes. His entire body goes tense in a way Aziraphale had never seen.

“Crowley? What’s the matter?”

Crowley doesn’t reply, just stays perfectly still. He takes one, long, sniff of the air, then sinks back into the sofa. “Shit, shit, shit,” he says, “_shit_.”

“What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“We’re screwed, that’s what’s happened,” Crowley says, taking another swig, “fuck.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Crowley doesn’t care to elaborate, not really. He can hardly tell a human that the anti-christ has just gotten his hell hound, meaning the apocalypse has kicked off and they’ve got no more than a week left to live. So Crowley’s plan hasn’t worked in the slightest. He doesn’t know who the anti-christ is, and he could hardly stop the apocalypse even if he did. The Earth is going to be destroyed, and Aziraphale with it. Crowley’s going to be trapped in Hell forever.

“Fuck,” he repeats, finishing off the bottle. He needs to get off this planet, and he needs to take Aziraphale with him, before anything bad happens, “_fuck_. You ever travelled much?”

“Have I- what? A fair bit, I suppose,” Aziraphale says, confused and concerned about Crowley’s wellbeing, “why?”

“Fancy going on a trip? Bet I can take you further than you’ve ever been before.”

“Crowley, what are you on about?”

“Where’s your astrology section?” Crowley asks, as if he doesn’t already know Aziraphale’s shop off by heart. He gets up, striding over to it and running his fingers along the spines of the books, stopping at one and pulling it out. He stands there, flicking through the pages, while Aziraphale watches on with concern.

After a few minutes of this, Aziraphale gets up to see what Crowley’s doing and watches him, hovering just behind him, flicking through descriptions of different stars and planetary systems.

Crowley doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he’s sure he’ll know when he finds it. He skims each page as he flicks through the book, but none of it is right. Except…maybe this one. Two stars so close they appear as one. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s presence behind him, and it feels right. It makes sense.

“Alpha Centauri,” Crowley says, jabbing his finger at the book. He spins round to face Aziraphale, and realises that he greatly overestimated the distance between them. He doesn’t do anything to change it.

“The…stars? What’s going on Crowley?”

“Let’s run away together,” Crowley says, feeling the warmth radiating off of Aziraphale and wanting to step even closer. Demons, while appearing human and being able to function as humans, don’t produce body heat in the same way humans do. Angels do so to an excessive amount. Standing this close to Aziraphale feels like standing in the sun on a perfect summer’s day, warming Crowley’s heatless skin.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s sure that Crowley’s gone mad, but he can’t deny the appeal of the nonsense he’s spouting. The apocalypse is on its way, Aziraphale _wishes_ he could run away, keep Crowley safe. But he can’t.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley replies, seeming to sober up, going serious and solemn, “trust me.”

“Trust you, Crowley, you’re not making any sense!”

“I know, I know,” Crowley runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t know how to convince Aziraphale but he _has_ to. “I’ll explain when we get there, just please trust me.”

“When we get _where_? The stars? I’m afraid neither of us own a rocket, Crowley!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Crowley insists, “trust me, please.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Something’s happening, angel, something bad,” Crowley says, “and I can’t protect you, not here.”

“Crowley, just tell me what-”

“I can’t!” Crowley interrupts, “You have to trust me. I can’t…” Without thinking, Crowley grabs the front of Aziraphale’s jacket, holding on tight and stepping even closer to him, feeling drawn to his heat, “I can’t lose you, angel, please.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. He’s sure his brain short-circuited the moment Crowley touched him and got close enough that he can feel his breath against his face. They both stand there, impossibly close, in complete silence. All that either of them can think of is kissing the other.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley starts. He says it with such softness and sorrow that Aziraphale aches to be closer. They both shift forward minuscule amounts, without even thinking about it. Aziraphale stares at Crowley’s lips, desperately longing for more. He lets his gaze flick up to Crowley’s eyes, and he can just about see the shape of them through the glasses. Aziraphale’s heart skips a beat, and for a moment everything’s perfect and normal and _right_, and then this all hits him, full force, what he’s doing, where he is, everything. Crowley’s a human, Aziraphale’s an angel, they _can’t_ do this.

Aziraphale stumbles backwards, creating as much distance between him and Crowley as possible. He avoids looking at Crowley’s face, not trusting himself. He misses how it completely falls the moment Aziraphale steps away, any hope draining out of it.

“I’m sorry, Crowley, we can’t.”

Crowley considers acting as if nothing happened, as if nothing was about to happen, and moving on like everything’s normal. But it’s _not_. Crowley loves Aziraphale and in a week he’ll be dead. He doesn’t know what to _do. _The moment Aziraphale looks back up at him, and their eyes meet, Crowley feels any pretence that that didn’t just happen slip away.

“Why not?”

Aziraphale, clearly, didn’t expect that. “Because…we can’t, Crowley.”

Crowley takes a step closer, “Why not? Give me one good reason, angel.”

“Because of _that_,” Aziraphale says. He resists swearing, because now he’s really just thrown himself into it. He has to tell Crowley.

“What?” Crowley stops in his tracks, genuinely confused.

“That nickname you gave me,” Aziraphale says, with a strange kind of bitter laugh, “was always awfully accurate.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a human, Crowley. It’s forbidden for me to even _consider_ anything like this. We shouldn’t even be _friends_.”

Crowley stops himself from correcting Aziraphale. He’s supposed to be human. “You’re…not human?” His brain is simultaneously moving at several thousand miles an hour and barely even one mile an hour. Aziraphale can’t be a demon, that’s impossible. Aziraphale is too _good_ for that.

“An angel, to be precise.”

Of course. Of _course_. Not a demon. An angel. _An angel_. Crowley thinks he might be having heart failure. Brain failure. A stroke, maybe. _Some_thing. Aziraphale’s an angel. Not a human, not a demon, an angel. Everything that had been making Crowley hold back, everything that had told him this was _wrong_, they couldn’t do it, now it’s all a million times worse. A demon and a human is bad enough, but a demon and an _angel_…Crowley would be tortured for the rest of existence.

“An angel,” Crowley repeats, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears.

“If you need to sit down-”

“I should go,” Crowley interrupts. He doesn’t want to, but he has to. “I should…sorry.”

And with that, he’s gone, out the door before Aziraphale can say another word. Aziraphale sighs and finishes the rest of his whiskey. Well that was a mistake. Now Crowley hates him. And he’s still going to die in a week.

***

Crowley doesn’t make it far, approximately the three feet between Aziraphale’s door and the curb. He sits there, next to his car, just thinking. He gets a few stares from the crowds of pedestrians coming through Soho, but he’s beyond even thinking about that, let alone caring.

Aziraphale is an angel. And he’s a demon. They’re forbidden from any kind of friendship, romance, anything. They’re barely even supposed to speak to one another. They’ve been on opposite sides since the dawn of time. And while this means that the apocalypse won’t kill Aziraphale, they’ll still be eternally separated in Heaven and Hell. Not to mention the fact that Crowley will no doubt be doomed to eternity in the deepest pit Hell can think up as soon as they find out about this. Which they will.

***

The other side of the door, Aziraphale paces around his shop. Maybe he shouldn’t have told Crowley. Now he’s freaking out, thinking how badly he’s screwed everything up. Not that it matters much, the world is still ending in a week. Now that Crowley knows, maybe he should tell him that, too. He’s smart, he might be able to figure out how they can stop it.

Aziraphale stops that thought straight away before he can run away with it. He can’t put that on Crowley, that’s too much pressure. He’s already being far too optimistic assuming that Crowley will ever _speak_ to him again. Maybe he thinks he’s delusional, some kind of religious nut. That would _really_ scare him off, more than any truth.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, glancing at the empty bottle of whiskey and wishing there was more. He should go talk to Crowley. He has to. He’s got to make this right, tell him it was a joke, it was a metaphor, it was _anything_.

He rushes out the front door, nearly walking directly into Crowley and falling on top of him. He stops himself just in time, pulling himself together a bit before he speaks.

“Crowley?”

“Hey, angel,” Crowley says. He laughs, a short, painful sound.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Aziraphale says, sitting down next to Crowley.

“No, I’m glad you did,” Crowley says. At least now he knows how bad everything actually is. Even though he hadn’t known Aziraphale was an angel for the last eleven years, Hell would never believe that, so it’s better that he knows.

“You are?” Aziraphale gets this hopeful look on his face, a small smile slowly blooming.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Crowley says, not wanting to let him down entirely. He already knows he’s going to hate him as soon as he finds out. “This is really bad.”

“What is, why?”

“We should go back inside.” Crowleys not sure when he decided to tell Aziraphale, but now that he’s here, next to him, he knows he has to know the truth. He can’t keep lying to him, not now that he’s told him. He has to tell him, even if it means Aziraphale hating him forever.

“Why?” Aziraphale asks, watching with confusion as Crowley gets back up, opening the door to Aziraphale’s shop and holding it open for him.

“We need to talk,” Crowley says, still waiting.

“About what?”

Crowley sighs. “Just…come on, angel.”

“No, not until you tell me what’s going on. What do we have to talk about?”

“What, besides you being an angel?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale looks guilty. “The apocalypse.”

“What?”

“Surely your side knows what’s going on.”

“My…side? What do you mean, Crowley? Why do…how do you know about the apocalypse?”

“Come inside.”

Finally, Aziraphale gets up, going inside with another confused look in Crowley’s direction. Crowley follows, locking the door and pulling the blinds down behind him.

When Crowley turns back, Aziraphale has his arms crossed, trying to look menacing. It doesn’t work, not remotely, and instead gives the impression of a kid that hasn’t got what he wanted. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Crowley sighs. This is the end of it, he supposes. At least Aziraphale seemed to want to kiss him, too. Not that that will make him feel any better in two seconds time when Aziraphale hates him entirely. “I’m a demon.”

Aziraphale’s expression drops and disappears, his arms falling to his side limply. “What?”

“Yep. Demon. Fallen angel. A wily serpent. Whatever you want to call it.”

“Serpent?” The word reminds him of a distant memory, a meeting on a wall with an enemy that treated him more like a friend.

Crowley shrugs it off. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, I’m a demon. We’re on opposite sides.”

“Demon,” Aziraphale repeats. His mind isn’t quite processing what’s going on, it’s rejecting the whole idea of it because of how badly it messes everything up. Even more than they already are, that is.

“That’s me.” Crowley forces a bitter smile, trying to play it cool, act as if this isn’t as huge of a deal as it actually is, as if that’ll make a difference in the end, as if it’d change how Aziraphale will react.

“You’re a demon.”

“Do you need to sit down?” Crowley reaches a hand out to help Aziraphale to a chair. He only just touches his wrist, a gentle, barely-there touch, before Aziraphale pulls his hand away as if burned. Crowley is _cold_. That one, simple touch lingers as if the heat had been leeched out of him, a cold spot where each finger had touched his skin. Aziraphale doesn’t know how he didn’t notice this before. How didn’t he see the _signs_. The way Crowley spoke, acted, everything. He should’ve known. He always liked to cause a bit of trouble. But a _demon_? Demons are _evil _creatures, ungodly. Despite all the bright, obvious arrows pointing to the truth, Aziraphale can’t believe that Crowley’s capable of that kind of evil.

“You can’t be a demon,” Aziraphale says, “you’re too…_nice_.”

“I’m not_ nice_,” Crowley all but hisses, taking a few too many steps close to Aziraphale, “I’ve never been _nice_, I’m a demon.”

Crowley realises how close he is to Aziraphale, again. He thinks about kissing him for the second time that day. Aziraphale thinks about the complete lack of body heat coming off of Crowley. He really is a demon.

Aziraphale panics, stumbling backwards and away from Crowley. He’d never been this close to a demon, not in a good 6000 years. Except, he had. He’d been close to Crowley, day in, day out, for the last eleven years. And Crowley’s a demon, he’d been a demon that whole time.

“You tricked me,” Aziraphale says, before he’s even properly thought about it.

“What?” Crowley says, genuinely thrown. _Tricked?_

“You…you tricked me,” Aziraphale repeats, “you knew I was an angel, you tricked me into becoming friends with you, so you could…so you could…cause trouble. Spy.”

Crowley feels numb, outside of his body, like this isn’t really even happening. Everything had been _fine _just yesterday. They’d had dinner, sat and talked together, drank together. Everything was normal and fine and _happy_. And now it’s all ruined.

“You think I had to trick you to become friends?”

“You’re a _demon_.”

Crowley takes a long, slow minute to reply. The numbness fades away, replaced with a fresh, raw anger. He’s fed up with this. He didn’t _ask_ for this. He didn’t _want_ to Fall. If only he’d stopped it, somehow…This wouldn’t be an issue. He and Aziraphale would be allowed to be friends. Maybe more. They’d have gotten 6000 years together, already, and would have as many as they could possibly need in the future, apocalypse or not.

“_And_?” Crowley says, finally, “What the hell does that _mean_? _We’re the same!” _Crowley steps closer again, still keeping enough distance between them. His voice rises more and more with each word. “We’re all made of the same stuff, just because I come from downstairs and you come from upstairs, what difference does it make?”

“Because you _chose_ this,” Aziraphale yells, “it was _your_ choice, you didn’t have to Fall!”

“You think I wanted to?” Crowley yells back, “I wasn’t part of the war, or Lucifer’s rebellion, or any of it! God sent me away for asking too many questions! You think that’s the work of a demon?”

“What?” Aziraphale stops, his energy gone, everything inside him grinding to a halt. “What do you mean?” He hadn’t known any angels had Fallen other than those that had been part of the rebellion.

“I didn’t go against God, or fight, or rebel. I didn’t agree with Lucifer that we’re superior to humans. I _liked_ humans. I saw God’s plan for them and how They were treating them and I didn’t like it. I kept questioning, asking why they had to suffer. So I was cast out. I Fell.”

“You...” Aziraphale takes a hesitant step forwards. He doesn’t know what to think, anymore. “That’s why you Fell?”

Crowley shrugs and looks away. “I didn’t want to be a demon. I never wanted any part of this.”

“But you....you’re still a demon. Hell sent you up to Earth. If they knew, why would they...”

“They realised the only way I’d do anything was on Earth. It got to the point where no amount of torture could change how I felt.”

“Tort- torture?”

Crowley shrugs. He sits down. Everything is suddenly too much; too exhausting and draining for Crowley to even begin to handle. It hits him in a sudden wave. He takes his sunglasses off, rubbing at his eyes. He wants to cry or maybe sleep for another hundred years.

Despite everything that’s happened, Aziraphale’s heart skips a beat the moment Crowley’s glasses come off. He still can’t see his eyes. He knows this shouldn’t be his focus, not with everything that’s suddenly coming to light, but his feelings for Crowley are still buried under all of this.

Aziraphale sits down and puts a gentle, reassuring hand on Crowley’s arm. He’s a demon, but he’s his friend. And his friend is in pain.

Crowley looks up at him, eyes heavy and tired and starting to glisten. Their eyes meet for the first time in 6000 years.

Aziraphale all but gasps, his breath entirely taken out of his lungs.

“This is why you never took your sunglasses off,” Aziraphale says, with a small laugh. Crowley nods. “Well, they’re not just plain brown.” In fact, they’re exactly the opposite. Aziraphale knows it’s wrong, because Crowley’s eyes are undeniably demonic and serpent-like, but he already loves them. Crowley’s face, open and unobstructed for the first time since they’d met, completely takes his breath away. It takes him a moment before he remembers what Crowley had said.

“Crowley...torture?”

Crowley sighs. “Hell knew why I Fell. More than I did, at that point. They had to find some way or another to detach me from Heaven. So they tortured me and tortured me until I couldn’t disobey anymore. They’d still go back to it, every now and then, when I got things a bit too wrong.”

“They still…torture…you?” Aziraphale asks, this insight into Hell being worse than he’d ever imagined.

Crowley nods, “I think they’ll do a lot worse than just torture me this time, though.”

“This time? What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know, just trying to prevent the apocalypse. Everything my side has been working towards since the beginning of time. Plus, apparently making friends with the enemy now, too.”

“You’ve been…trying to prevent the apocalypse?”

Crowley sighs, nods again. “Trying being the key word. That’s who I was nannying, the anti-christ. Trying to make sure he ends up normal.”

“The anti-christ, Warlock? I was his gardener! I’ve been trying to stop it too. Heaven warned me there’d be a demon around…Crawly, apparently he’d been here since Eden. Think I met him once. Do you know him? I haven’t seen any sign of him.”

Crowley laughs, the ridiculous kind of laugh only born out of such a ridiculous and dire situation, “That’s me. Changed my name a few millennia ago, guess Heaven didn’t catch on. You were in Eden?”

“Yes, Eastern gate. You were…we met.”

Crowley stops, looks at Aziraphale for a bit, using his face to dredge up deep, old memories. “I remember you. You protected me from the rain.”

“You were nice to me.”

In that one sentence, and the accompanying look on Aziraphale’s face, Crowley learns more about Heaven and angels than he ever thought he would. He understands the loneliness of it, the coldness of the angels, and why Aziraphale - soft, warm, friendly, perfect Aziraphale - is so out of place there. Crowley’s heart aches to make up for all of those years Aziraphale had alone.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley says, voice full of longing, pain, and the shared misery of 6000 years of loneliness. A hand reaches out for him, but gives up halfway there. Aziraphale’s face only discourages him further.

“We’re still on opposite sides.”

“Are we? We’re both trying to stop the one thing both of our sides want.”

“That doesn’t…change things.”

“It should.”

“Crowley…”

“The apocalypse is happening, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, “whether we like it or not. Do you really want to stay trapped in Heaven forever?”

“We don’t know that our efforts haven’t worked.”

“They haven’t,” Crowley says, “Warlock isn’t the anti-christ. The hell hound didn’t show up today. It went to someone else.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

Aziraphale sighs. “What do we do?”

“Give up?” Crowley suggests. He can’t think of much better. “My offer still stands. We can run away, get away from Heaven and Hell forever, even if they turn this into their own personal battleground. Alpha Centauri, what do you say, angel?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley. We can’t run away.”

“And why not?”

“Why not?” Aziraphale repeats, “Why not? Because you’re a _demon_ why not. Because the world will be destroyed in a week if we don’t do something. Because we’re hereditary enemies.”

“So, what’s your plan? We find a way to stop the apocalypse, somehow, when we don’t even know who or where the anti-christ is, and, then what? We fail and get tortured until the end of time by our respective bosses, or we succeed and get tortured until the end of time by our respective bosses.”

“They wouldn’t…”

“Mine would. I’m sure yours wouldn’t exactly be happy, either.”

“We can’t just _run away_, Crowley.”

“Why not? The Earth is doomed, isn’t it? After that, you’re all that’s left that I care about.”

“I am?”Aziraphale says. That stops him. Crowley’s a _demon_, surely he can’t care about him. Are demons even capable of that? The look on Crowley’s face feels like enough of an answer, and for one, blissful moment, Aziraphale forgets about everything else. In that moment, it’s just him and Crowley, perfectly able to run away together and forget about everything else. They could do it. They could run away and not look back.

“Of course you are, angel.”

Aziraphale sighs, forcing himself out of his idealistic daydreams. They can’t run away, they can’t escape the consequences of Heaven and Hell, and they can’t leave the Earth to be destroyed. “You know we have to try and stop it. We’re the only hope Earth has got.”

“I know,” Crowley says, finally admitting defeat, slumping back against the seat. He guesses he always knew that. But he’s always been an optimist. He still won’t give up on this; if things start looking really bad, this can be a backup. “So how do we do it?”

“Do what?”

“Stop the apocalypse.”

“Well, I guess we’ve got to find the anti-christ.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've finally gotten around to watching series 3 of broadchurch even though it came out 2 years ago and i forgot how much i just want alec and ellie to suck it up and kiss already


End file.
